


Not Today

by LeSweetLoaf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Faceless Arya, Family Drama, Romance, The Faceless Men, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-02-18 13:10:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 60
Words: 165,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18700267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeSweetLoaf/pseuds/LeSweetLoaf
Summary: Arya Stark had returned to Winterfell with one goal in her mind: family.  Her reunion with Sansa had been warmer than she could have imagined, and now Jon was returning as well, the armies of Queen Daenerys in tow.She hadn’t expected the blacksmith to ride his way back into her life, but here he was.  For so long in her mind, he was dead and gone, and there he stood; shirt pushed up to his elbows, sweat and soot glistening on the skin of his chest as he hammered molten steel into shape. Why did seeing him again have to invoke so many complicated feelings?A complete retelling of season 8, non S8E6 compliant.Arya x Gendry





	1. Wolf Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Almost completely show canon, except that I've decided that Arya and Nymeria never met on her way up to winterfell. I plan on trying to add a lot of detail and emotion in each chapter, and will likely be telling this from either Arya or Gendry's POV. This is mainly a Gendrya fic, all other relationships will be very much in the background.
> 
> Update: No longer canon compliant post S8 E3

-  Arya  -

 

 

_Leaves crunched under her paws as she ran, the fallen plant life stiff with ice.  These lands were new, she had never encountered many of these scents before, yet one stood out in her nose.  It had started near the river and had called to something deep in her memory.  When she found it, it had been faint, nearly gone, but it reminded her of something.  Her pack had not understood when she led them from their normal hunting grounds.  She needed to follow that scent, but one by one, the pack had split from her as it carried her further from their territory._

_Now she walked alone, pushing through the snow-covered underbrush in the forest as she moved.  The scent followed the human roads, but she lingered to the side. The forest was safer than the road.  The human building at the crossroads carried the scent, more so than before.  With the added freshness of the trail, that memory surged forward and finally there was a word for the scent._

_Family_

 

-  -  -  -  -

 

Arya jolted awake, her nose full of the scents of the forest and of a memory long forgotten.  Her breath caught in her chest as she sat up in her bed, running a hand over her face as sleep fled from her.  It would not return that night.  It had been many years since Arya had truly slept well.  She was used to sleeping on rocks and moss, lumpy cots, or even on cold stone floors. Her dreams disturbed her most nights, ferocious dreams of running through forests, tearing into flesh, howling to the stars. Often, she woke out of breath, the metallic taste of blood still lingering on her tongue.

  

Her years on the road and in Bravos had made her forget what it had really been like to be a ‘Stark of Winterfell’, and for all the many faces she had worn, this was by far the most difficult.  The feather bed in her chambers was soft and inviting, with smooth sheets and thick furs to keep her warm, but it didn’t bring her the comfort she had once found.  She wasn’t used to soft and warm anymore.  It was too soft, too comfortable, too _safe_. 

 

She let herself fall back into her bed, staring up at the ceiling of her chambers, her eyes tracing the familiar patterns in the wood-grain above her.  She had spent hours as a child memorizing the patterns at night as she waited to fall asleep.  Now she waited for the dawn, for the hour when it would be acceptable for her to leave her chambers and get back to training.  The dead were coming, winter had arrived, and now was not the time for her to let her training slide. 

 

She was dressed and armed by the time the pre-dawn light touched the courtyard outside her window.  The sky was dark and grey, but the air was cool and dry.  There would be no snow today.  As lights began to flicker and the castle began to stir to life, Arya was spinning across the training yard, Needle grasped behind her back as she practiced her water dancing forms.

  
_Not today._

 

It had been seven years since she had trained in the red keep with Syrio Forel, at times she could barely remember his face, but those words never left her.  Even when she was Cat of the canals, even when she had been no one, those words lingered in her mind.  Now she whispered them under her breath like a prayer as she moved.  The only sound was the whip of Needle through the air as she struck at an invisible opponent.  Even in practice, she put her full weight into each strike. 

 

Arya liked to imagine the foe she was striking was one of the names that remained on her list.  It was much shorter now, but still she knew it front to back.  After all, she had spent years whispering it as she fell asleep at night, the names came to her easily.

 

_Ser Ilyn Pyne_

_The Mountain_

_Cersei Lannister_

 

As much as the memory of their faces made her blood boil with rage, her list would have to wait.  She was not training now for their deaths; she was training for the dead.  She was training for her family, for house Stark, for Jon and Sansa and Bran.  One more swipe of her sword and then Needle returned to its place at her side, her forms completed.  Her chest rose and fell at an elevated rate.  She was strong, but even then the form was still a challenge for the best.  She enjoyed the warmth in her face and the feel of the frosty morning air rushing into her lungs.  It helped remind her of who she was.  She wasn’t No One, she was Arya Stark, here to defend her family from darkness.

 

She made her way to the kitchens, slipping in and out quietly as the servants cooked breakfast for the inhabitants of the castle.  She would make do with a hunk of bread and some salted pork.  She’d lived through far worse on far less.  She stepped into the great hall to see Sansa at the head table, her sister’s brow furrowed at the raven scroll in her hands. 

 

“What have you got there?” Arya asked, sliding into the chair beside Sansa, a ghost of a smirk crossing her face when her Lady sister gave a small start at her sudden appearance.

 

“Arya, why must you sneak up on me like that?” Sansa fussed at her younger sister, though her tone was teasing rather than admonishing.  Another look of surprise crossed Sansa’s face when the scroll was suddenly grasped in Arya’s hands, and her own fingers were empty.  When had her little sister become so light fingered?

 

Arya read through the scroll, running her fingers over the broken seal on the parchment.  The three headed dragon of house Targaryen.  Jon had bent the knee to The Dragon Queen, they had sailed to White Harbor, and were riding with her army to Winterfell.  The scroll was dated two days prior, and it was a two-day ride from White Harbor to Winterfell.  Jon was coming home. _Today._

 

“Jon is coming home,” She said quietly, a true smile cracking over her face.  Such smiles were rare for her these days. She looked back to Sansa, a light in her eyes that had been missing for so long.  But there was no joy in her elder sisters’ gaze.

 

“He bent the knee,” she said, her tone cold and sharp as castle forged steel.  “He gave away The North to _her_.  What do we even know of this Dragon Queen?” The redhead spat, the wrinkle in her nose and the slight furrowing of her brow giving away the fury that was brewing inside.  Arya frowned, looking back to the scroll.  She’d never had time for titles and crowns, and she didn’t care who sat on the Iron Throne, as long as it wasn’t Cersei. 

 

“We know she has dragons and a very large army, and we know she’s marching them all here to help us fight the dead,” Arya said, fixing her gaze back on her sister. “We know Jon trusts her, and we trust Jon.”  She placed the scroll back on the table, getting up from her seat. Steel gray met blue as she met the cold gaze of her sister.  She could tell Sansa was displeased with the situation, but she kept the anger off of her face.  Sansa stood as well, leaving her barely touched breakfast on the table.

 

“Since he will be here today, there is much to do to prepare.  Try to wear something presentable when they arrive at least.  I don’t want his _new_ queen thinking we’re savages.” Sansa said, raking her gaze over Arya’s leather jerkin and trousers disapprovingly.  She had tried her best to convince Arya to wear a dress when the younger Stark had arrived back at the castle, but Arya had simply lifted her chin in defiance and refused.  Arya rolled her eyes and turned on her heels, moving through the winding halls of her childhood home back to her quarters.

 

Loath though she was to admit it, Sansa was right.  But she wasn’t changing for this new queen, she was changing for Jon.  She had a new tunic and fur cloak that she had ordered from the tailor and had yet to wear for more than a few minutes.  She unfastened her belt, setting her blades on her bed as she undid her leather jerkin.  She tossed it on a nearby chair, crossing her room to reach the wardrobe, passing in front of her mirror and catching a glimpse of herself in the reflection.  She didn’t often look in the mirror, never having liked what she saw there, but now she liked the image even less.  The scars that wrapped around her torso, the series of punctures and slices across her lower abdomen, the burns and knife marks. 

 

She turned away, pulling the new shirt and tunic from her wardrobe, yanking the garment over her head. She tied on the shirt and then pulled the tunic on as well, tugging on the ends to straighten it out.  It was more fitted than she was used to, but the leather was sturdy on the outside and soft on the inside. She pulled on her new cloak as well, enjoying the soft tickle of the fur against her neck.  It reminded her of the way Nymeria’s fur had felt when she had been a pup.

 

She looked back in the mirror again, more comfortable with the image it now held.  She fastened her belt back around her waist, tucking Needle and Catspaw out of the way under her furs. She swept the top of her hair up, twisting it into a braided bun at the back of her head, securing it with a strip of leather.  A wisp of hair escaped her bun, falling into her eyes, and for just a moment when she looked in the mirror, she saw the face of her father staring back at her. It tugged on that hole in her chest that never seemed to grow any smaller, and she looked away. 

 

She turned on her heel and left her room, heading out into the courtyard and out the main gates, walking along the side of the road with the common folk to Winter Town.  Jon and the Dragon Queen would need to march their armies right through the small town on their way to Winterfell, and she wanted to be the first one to see Jon when he returned. 

 

It didn’t take long for the sound of marching to reach her ears, even over the bustle of the town.  People stilled, turning their gaze to the icy fields and the sudden black mass that had appeared on the horizon.  Even from so far away, the sound of the army could be heard, boots beating on the icy road.  The Unsullied came first, marching in their perfect formation down the center of the road, flanked by tanned men with curved blades and hair down to their waists on horseback.  The Dothraki horde.  Arya stood to the side as they marched past.  Her face was a cool mask of indifference until there was a break in the ranks of the Unsullied.

 

He rounded the corner on a black steed, a thick cloak across his shoulders.  His hair was pulled up much the same way hers was. _Like father used to wear his_.  His beard had finally grown in, but he still looked every bit as much as she remembered him, plus a few scars here and there.  They had a lot to catch up on.  She almost stepped forward and spoke when he drew near on his horse, but he continued right past her.  He hadn’t recognized her among the crowd.  It stung more than she expected. 

 

She shifted her shoulders, furrowing her brow at the sudden barrage of feeling she’d been filled with today.  Was this what it was like to be Arya Stark again?  To feel things again. To feel longing for her family, to feel pain at loss, to feel hurt at being overlooked.  It was harder to be Arya Stark than she remembered.  Her eyes turned back to the procession, her smooth mask of control slipping just a hair as the scarred face of the Hound rode into her view.  She had left him to die, but she hadn’t really wanted him to.  She’d removed him from her list anyway. 

 

The next rider in the line made her suck in a breath sharply. It had been years since she’d seen that face, scared and angry as he’d been carted away from her by the red woman.  Still, she would recognize that face in a crowd for the rest of her days. She wasn’t even aware of the smile that curled over her face as he rode past. After all this time, after everything that had happened, he was still alive.

 

_Gendry_


	2. Stormy Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> We get a little backstory for him here, and I wanted to take some time to delve into how he might be feeling coming to Winterfell after not having known if Arya was alive or dead for so many years.

-  Gendry  -

 

Gendry had never been at home on horseback, no matter how many times he rode.  Horses had always belonged to nobility, and he had always been a nobody. It seemed though that to Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys that being a nobody was in his favor for once.  He recalled the way the Dragon Queen had fixed him with her furious gaze when Jon and Ser Davos had explained that he was King Robert’s bastard son.  He had stood at the steps of the throne room on Dragonstone and faced her harsh words about his father, only to snap back that she of all people shouldn’t judge someone based on their parentage. 

 

Now he rode in the procession of her court, behind the Hound but still given a place among her advisors.  She had thanked him for the raven scroll that had brought her north to rescue them from beyond the wall and had given him a place amongst them, likely at Jon’s request.  He had seen the way that she looked at Jon when she thought no one was looking as they rode on her ship to White Harbor.  His mother had died when he was young, the memory of her face had long since faced from accuracy, but he could still remember her green eyes shining with love as she smiled to him.  Only one other pair of eyes had ever looked at him with that kind of emotion.

 

Gray eyes had haunted his dreams for years.  He’d had plenty of time to mourn her death at the red wedding, but even after all that time he had never been able to shake the image of her eyes.  Those eyes wide and glistening with tears as she had begged him to come with her and join her at Winterfell.  Her words had spun in his brain over and over and every day he had regretted his prior decision.

 

_“I could be your family”_

_“You wouldn’t be my family; you’d be my Lady”_

 

He remembered the way those gray eyes had hardened with pain at those words. His deepest regret for years had always been turning down that offer.  He’d poured over the maybes time and time again.  Maybe if he’d stayed, she wouldn’t have gone to the red wedding. Maybe if he’d stayed, she would have still been alive. 

 

Even though he could never shake her eyes from his dreams, he had buried Arya Stark in his heart.  He’d followed her favorite brother to the ends of the earth in her honor, trying somehow to make up for abandoning her those years ago.  As it tended to do, time had started to mend the wound on his heart that her loss had caused.  It had torn wide open with just a few words from Ser Davos while they were on the ship though.

 

He’d never been one for boats, especially after all that rowing from Dragonstone, and he had been out on the main deck one evening on their way to White Harbor.  He had been leaning on the rails, trying to calm the rolling in his stomach that came from the shifting of the waves.  Ser Davos had joined him against the rails in the darkness, simply standing there for a moment before speaking.

 

“I’m glad his Grace decided to bring you with us to Winterfell, we’re going to need your skill in the forge for this fight,” the Onion Knight said, his gray-blue eyes settling on the young blacksmith.

 

“I know his Grace is excited to return home.  I suppose he misses his sisters,” the older man mused, turning his attention back to the sea, though he paid quiet attention to the reaction of the young man beside him. 

 

“Sisters?” Gendry queried, turning his head towards the knight, his brow furrowing.

 

“Aye lad.  Jon’s younger sister Arya arrived at Winterfell while we were in Kings Landing.  I heard she had not been home in some years, and I’d never seen his Grace smile so broadly.” Ser Davos said, eyeing the young man.  In the days before, Gendry had let slip to him that he had known the younger Stark girl when they had been children, one night when they’d had perhaps a little too much wine celebrating the fact that they were alive after their adventure beyond the wall.  Davos had kept the news from Jon, it wasn’t his news to tell.  He had been curious of the boy’s reaction to the news of the youngest Stark girls return though.

 

It was clear by the way Gendry’s hands curled into fists and he looked away that there was something unresolved between him and the Stark girl.  Gendry looked out at the swirling sea, his stomach turning flips, bile threatening to rise in the back of his throat.  He’d spent so much time thinking that she was dead and gone, lost at the twins with her mother and brother.  She’d been alive this whole time, out there somewhere, surviving. 

 

That guilt that he’d pushed down about leaving her all those years ago had surged back to the surface.  He had kicked himself a thousand times for that mistake.  Now here he was, on his way to Winterfell to serve a king like she’d begged him to do before.  This was a different king though, for a different war. 

 

He had excused himself from the deck of the ship, muttering something about trying to get some rest, though his head was spinning a hundred times a second.  He had laid in his bunk that night, staring at the ceiling of the cabin above him, agonizing over what the next few days would bring.  Would she still be angry with him for leaving her? Would he be forgiven?  Would she even still recognize him?

 

The idea that she might have forgotten him after so many years tore at his heart.  He’d never been able to forget her; she was stamped onto his heart like a brand.  She had been the only family he’d ever truly had, and he’d pushed her away. When sleep had finally claimed him, his dreams had been filled with her gray eyes, tormenting him even in rest.

 

Now he rode towards her home, a fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders as he followed the former King in the North and Queen Daenerys towards Winterfell.  He’d grown up in the shadow of the red keep, so he knew he shouldn’t be surprised at the size of the castle, but it was stunning none the less.  It was everything Arya had described to him, those many nights they’d laid back to back on the forest floor and she’d told him stories of her home as they traveled together.

 

Every step closer he felt the anxiety rising in his chest, and as he rode through the main gate his heart was beating in his throat as he surveyed the faces in the courtyard for any sign of her.  Jon had already dismounted and greeted his other two siblings, hugging the elder of the two Stark sisters.  Lady Sansa was every bit as beautiful as he’d heard, though Gendry could hardly believe she was related to Jon and Arya, her coloring so different from her obviously Stark siblings.

 

His eyes scanned the faces all around, but there were no gray eyes staring back at him among the crowd.  He breathed out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He wasn’t ready to face her just yet.  He knew he was being cowardly, but if she was anything like he remembered, there could be hell to pay upon their reunion.  He wouldn’t be surprised if she met him with fists instead of open arms after the way they left things.

 

A servant led his horse away to the stables, and it didn’t take long for someone to direct him to the forge.  There was no time to waste, the forge needed to heat, and weapons needed to be crafted as soon as possible. He stood in the courtyard, the men carting the dragonglass staring at him.  He realized they were waiting for instructions _from him_.  He cleared his throat, starting to direct the men to carry the dragonglass to where they would need it most.

 

He was able to remove his cloak once the fires in the forge were lit, much more comfortable in the warmth of the flames.  He didn’t waste any time, starting to heat dragonglass and steel to begin his work.  It was easy for time to slip by as his hammer pounded against the metal, he barely even noticed the setting of the sun and the growing darkness in the forge. 

 

He pulled a piece of steel from the fires, clamping it with his tongs and raising his hammer to strike down on the molten ingot, starting to shape the metal.  He raised his arm for another swing when a chill ran down his spine unbidden, a sudden feeling of being watched washing over him. He lifted his head, looking around the forge.  The hour was late, and the other smiths had long since returned to their wives and beds for well deserved rest.  The forge was empty save for him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.  He shook his head, turning back to the cooling metal in his grasp, giving it a few more pounds with his hammer before returning it to the flames.

 

He sighed, running his hands through his short hair, looking around the forge one more time.  That prickling feeling still lingered, tickling the back of his neck as he peered into the darkness.  He was all alone in the forge though, no one but him would be awake at this hour. Gendry shook his head, rolling his shoulder to dispel the feeling before turning back to the forge.  The feeling of being watched faded and he returned to his steel.  He wanted to finish this last blade before resting for a few hours before the dawn came.

 

When he finally collapsed onto the small cot in the room adjacent to the forge, sleep overtook him quickly, and once again he dreamed of gray eyes.


	3. The Godswood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya POV
> 
> We get a look into her reunion with Jon in the Godswood and a peek into her thoughts on her recently returned blacksmith.

-  Arya  -

 

 

She should have known that she would find Jon in the Godswood.  They had both often come here as children to brood over the unfair rules they had to abide by.  Their mutual brooding sessions had usually ended with her chasing him around, brandishing a stick as a sword before they fell into the fallen leaves as she ‘stabbed’ him with her ‘sword’.  She remembered the way they used to laugh until their sides hurt.  Back in those days when life had been so much simpler. 

 

“You used to be taller” Jon spun in the snow, his hand twitching towards the sword at his hip as he moved.  His dark eyes went wide as he took in his little sister.  When he’d seen her last, she had been a girl of eleven, and him a bastard at sixteen.  Now she was a woman of eighteen, and he was a king.  Not much taller than she had been before, but every bit as fierce as he remembered her.  But she had simply appeared in the Godswood behind him, without so much as the crunch of a leaf or the crackle of frost under her boots.

 

“How did you sneak up on me?” he asked, raising his brows at his younger sister.  She fixed him with a look that he didn’t recognize. It was cool, calculating, inquisitive.  She was studying him.

 

“How did you survive a knife through the heart?” Her question caught him off guard, and he managed a wry smile as he shrugged.

 

“I didn’t”

 

A smile broke out over Arya’s face as they both let out a soft chuckle and she broke into a short run.  She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.  His arms wrapped around her back as he lifted her into the air, rocking her back and forth ever so slightly.  They both closed their eyes, and for the first time in years Arya felt the burn of hot tears under her eyelashes.  She burrowed her face into the fur of his cloak, squeezing her eyes shut tightly as she willed away the tears. 

 

After a time, Jon finally set her gently back on the ground.  Arya took a step back and they each took a moment to survey the other.  She could see the approval on his face as Jon looked her over, a twinkle in his eye and a smile crossing his face as he spied the thin blade at her hip.

 

“You still have it” he said softly, almost in disbelief.  He’d known that she had loved his gift, but he’d never imagined that it might have stayed at her side for all these years.  She smiled, pulling the sword from her hip and offering it to him.

 

“Needle.” He took the blade in his hands, turning it over before looking at her.  His brows furrowed ever so slightly with concern as a question passed through his eyes.

 

“Have you ever used it?” He asked, watching as the smile slid from Arya’s face.

 

“Once or twice,” she answered quietly, taking Needle back from him and returning it to her side.  Their gazes broke for a moment, and it was then that she fixed her gaze on the white wolfs head pommel at his hip.  A new smile curled over her face as she lifted her eyes to meet his.  Jon grinned broadly, grasping Longclaw by the hilt and drawing the blade, offering it to her as she had done to him. 

 

“Valeryian steel,” she said, raising a brow at Jon as she tested the weight of the sword in her hands.  So like him to get a sword with his wolfs head carved into the pommel.  Ever a Stark in every way save his name.

 

“Jealous?” he teased, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he gazed at her affectionately.  It had been so long, but it felt like the years had melted away, and they were just two children again, comparing their shiny new toys. Arya chuckled softly, shaking her head and passing the sword back to him.

 

“Too heavy for me” He slid Longclaw back into its sheath, reaching out to grasp her shoulder.  He squeezed gently leaning closer to her, as though he was making sure she was really there.  His brow furrowed slightly with concern though.  She hadn’t been there when they had arrived in the main courtyard, leaving him alone to introduce Daenerys to their sister.

 

“Where were you before? I could have used your help with Sansa” He grumbled, shaking his head slightly.  Arya sighed and gave him a small sad smile. 

 

“She doesn’t like your queen, does she?” she said, looking at the hand that rested on her shoulder. Jon leaned in, a playful smile crossing his face once more as he lowered his voice, like they were sharing a secret again as kids.

 

“Sansa thinks she smarter than everyone”

 

“She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met” Arya bit back, her gaze hardening a bit as she looked at her older brother.  She knew that they’d both never got along well with Sansa in the past, but times had changed, and they needed to stick beside the little family that remained.  Jon’s brows raised and he let out a low laugh as though he didn’t believe the words that had left her lips.

 

“Now you’re defending her? You?” His voice was filled with a chuckle, but Arya didn’t return his mirth.  She was serious.  Sansa had taken the mantle of Lady Stark of Winterfell in stride.  She planned for winter and for war as best as she could. There was no one better suited to run the castle, not within a hundred miles.

 

“I’m defending our family. So is she.” She said, her voice firm as she met Jon’s gaze.  The smile fell from his face and he glanced away before meeting her gaze again. 

 

“I’m her family too” he said quietly, though his voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty at that statement.  Arya smiled slightly, stepping forward and pulling Jon into another hug.  She nuzzled her face into the pelt around his shoulders, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the warmth of his arms.  That hole in her heart that had been aching so this morning on the king’s road felt a little bit smaller now.

 

“Don’t forget that” She whispered, curling her fingers into the thick fur.  They stood there in silence for another minute more before she released her grip on him.

 

“I should be getting back, there’s much to be done before…” he didn’t need to finish that sentence, Arya understood what was coming. 

 

“I’ll walk with you” she said, stepping in line beside him as they made their way back to the main castle. She clasped her hands behind her back as they walked, glancing over at Jon every now and then.  A mischievous smile curled over her face she side stepped into him, jostling their shoulders together playfully.  A smile cracked over his glowering visage as he bumped her back, a laugh bubbling up through her lips as they walked.  Her family had returned. The dead were coming, but for that moment at least, her pack was whole again.

 

_Not quite_

 

Unbidden, the image of warm blue eyes flashed across her memory, and another surge of emotion welled in her chest.  In her delight at seeing Jon again, she had temporarily forgotten the blacksmith that had suddenly ridden back into her life.  She’d known the dark intentions of the red woman the moment she’d seen her all those years ago.  That woman had dark and violent plans, and she hadn’t trusted her for a moment.  When the brotherhood had held her back as they sold Gendry to the red woman, her heart had broken for him.  He’d trusted them, wanted to join them, and they’d sold him like a slave.

 

She had been so sure that the red woman had carted him off to his death.  It had been easier for him to be dead.  For a time, everyone had been dead to her, when she had been No One.  But now one of her ghosts had come back from the grave, and it made a knot of emotions form deep in her stomach. 

 

Many nights she’d laid in the dark, thinking of the stories they used to tell each other as children when they couldn’t sleep.  She used to dream that they’d escaped to the Riverlands and lived together like wild things in the forest. As she’d grown older though, sometimes those dreams had taken an unexpected turn.  Instead of a forest, it was a forge much like the one in Winterfell.  Those dreams of him were of forge and fire and something white hot and molten that Arya just didn’t quite understand. Those dreams would wake her much like her wolf dreams, with her breath short and her body on fire, though the fire of the forges was a different kind of flame.

 

She decided that she wanted some time to think before she went to him.  She wasn’t sure if she was still mad at him for turning down her offer to be his family.  Those words still rang in her memory, pricking at a sensitive place in her heart.  Things could have been so different if he’d just said yes.  It might have spared them endless pain and suffering. 

 

She parted ways with Jon in the courtyard, her feet moving her back inside the castle, through the winding halls to the library.  She grabbed a spare scrap of parchment and some charcoal, seating herself by a window.  Sometimes she liked to sketch when she had the materials.  She’d never been very good at capturing faces, but she enjoyed drawing weapons.  She’d made at least a hundred of Needle over the years, scratched into stone, scribbled with coal on the ground, scraped into dirt with a stick, it didn’t matter.  She wanted to have a good excuse to visit the forge aside from getting a closer look at her old friend. As much as she treasured Needle, it was not going to be helpful in the fight against the dead.  She had Catspaw, but she needed something longer.

 

She went through several scraps of parchment before she settled on a design that she liked. A medium length staff with long dragonglass blades attached to the end, leather handle in the middle where the staff could be disconnected and split into two separate weapons.  When her eyes had been taken from her, she had spent so much time training with a staff, she knew this would be the best way to take on several enemies at once. She needed to be able to spin and strike and keep the dead away from her person. 

 

By the time she had perfected her drawing, night had settled over the castle.  She hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. She stood from the table, looking out the window at the moon.  The sky had cleared since this morning, and the white orb stood out brightly against the inky black night.  It was far later than she had intended. 

 

Most of the castle was already asleep as she made her way down the stairs and into the courtyard.  She knew she had every right to walk the grounds of her family home, yet she instinctively clung to the shadows and stayed out of the moonlight as much as possible.  Her steps had purpose, and soon her feet had led her straight to the forge.  She could see the glow of the fires still blazing, even at this hour.  The sound of a hammer on metal rung through the night, when all the rest were sleeping. 

 

She crept closer, staying cloaked in the shadows as she fixed her gaze on the form of the smith. For so long in her mind, he was dead and gone, and there he stood; shirt pushed up to his elbows, sweat and soot glistening on the skin of his chest as he hammered molten steel into shape. Why did seeing him again have to invoke so many complicated feelings?

 

As though he could feel her gaze rake over him, she watched him pause and lift his head from his work.  She pulled further back into the shadows as he looked around the forge, a small frown flickering over his face.  He didn’t see her, but somehow, he had _known_ she was there. Even at a distance across the forge, she could feel his presence.  It was the same way she had been able to feel his presence when they were on the road or at Harrenhall.  That bond they had forged so long ago had worn thin with time, but now as he stood in the forge, she could feel the pull in her chest towards him.

 

She wanted to burst from the shadows and fling herself into his arms.  She wanted to hold him close like she had with Jon, but a nagging thought in the back of her mind stopped her.  What would he think of her?  He’d always accepted her for who she was before, but could he accept who she had become. Would he be able to reconcile his memories of the girl she had been with the woman she had grown up to be?

 

She was a killer, a warrior, a faceless assassin.  Would he be repulsed when he found out what had happened during her years in Braavos? Worse, would those blue eyes that used to be filled with so much warmth for her turn cold with fear once he realized what she had become.  She crept away from the forge, leaving him alone to his work as she headed back to her chambers.  Today had been a trying one, coupled with her lack of sleep and the upheaval of emotion that had flooded her that day.  It had been years since she had felt so much all at once.  Joy and pain and loneliness and fear, all bundled up into one.

 

She was tired, and her weapon could wait one more night.  She needed to try to find a few hours rest, and the time to compose herself before she returned to the forge to confront her blacksmith. She settled into bed with the Catspaw dagger under second pillow on her bed, her fingers resting on the hilt as she slipped away into slumber.  A whine slipped through her lips as her dreams were filled with snow and scents and the pounding of paws on the hoarfrost.


	4. Windswept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> I feel like we didn't get enough scenes where Jon and Arya have a chance to talk, so I wanted to include a little more of them interacting.

-  Arya  -

 

It was unlike her to turn up at breakfast, but considering who had returned, Arya decided to make an appearance.  Daenerys sat at the center of the head table, Sansa to her right, Jon to her left.  Arya had taken up her seat beside Jon, her brother giving her a warm smile.  He reached out to ruffle her hair, mussing it slightly before tucking the loose strands back behind her ear.  By all the gods, she had missed him the most of all her siblings.  Jon had always understood her in a way no one else had. 

 

“I saw you training in the yard earlier, right at dawn” he said, raising a dark brow at her, a crooked smile crossing his lips.

 

“Who taught you to move like that? I’ve never seen anything like it…” his voice trailed off as he studied his little sister, a hint of concern on his features.  What had she been through to receive training like that?  She had jumped and rolled and moved silently across the courtyard.  Her moves had been swift and precise, brutal blows to an invisible target.  A strange look crossed Arya’s face before she schooled her appearance behind a calm smile. 

 

“No One” She said, cocking brow at him, biting into a hunk of bread and cheese, watching him out of the corner of her grey eyes.  He scoffed softly and shook his head, stabbing at a sausage with his fork.

 

“One day, I hope you’ll tell me where you’ve been all these years.  You’re a grown woman now, I want to know the story of how you grew up to be her” he said, setting his fork down as he fixed her with his dark brown gaze.  She returned his gaze with calm intensity, gray meeting brown in a battle of wills as to who would blink first. Jon blinked; Arya won.

 

“It’s not a pleasant story, are you sure you want to hear it?” she murmured, turning away and taking a bite of her own breakfast. She could feel Jon’s eyes on her still, and she could hear him about to speak when she raised her hand, cutting him off.  She turned to look back at him, fixing him with her gaze.

 

“When the dead come, if the battle is won, afterwards I’ll tell you everything.  I promise,” she said, reaching over to grip his arm firmly.  Pain flashed across Jon’s face, but he nodded solemnly.  She didn’t need him to know everything just yet.  She wanted to enjoy just a little bit more time as his beloved little sister who could do no wrong. She nodded in return, releasing his arm and returning to her breakfast. 

 

She was starting to feel claustrophobic inside the walls of the castle.  She’d been here a few weeks and had hardly ventured outside the walls.  Sansa had begged her not to go riding, arguing that there was no telling what dangers might lay outside the walls.  The dead were coming, and the Lady of Winterfell wanted to take no chances. But Jon was home, there were thousands of soldiers around, Sansa couldn’t say it wasn’t safe anymore.

 

She stood from her chair, straightening her tunic and clearing her throat.

 

“I’m going for a ride, I’ll be back before nightfall” she said, turning and walking swiftly from the hall before Sansa had time to object.  She stopped by the kitchens to grab some bread and dried meat that she tucked into a pouch at her hip.  She saddled her horse, riding to the entrance to the castle, her gelding pawing at the frozen ground beneath his hooves as she waited for the door to open.  They were both anxious for this ride, it had been far too long.  The men lifted the heavy wooden bar, opening the gates to the king’s road.

 

They took off down the frozen dirt road, the horses hooves kicking up small frozen chunks of dirt as they started at a trot and quickly moved into a canter.  It wasn’t enough though, and without much of a nudge from Arya, the chestnut gelding leaped forward into a gallop.  The wind was freezing cold, and it stung at her eyes as they charged down the king’s road, but it felt good.  Snow was starting to fall, the flakes hitting her cheeks, melting on her flushed skin as they barreled down the way. 

 

She rode through Winter Town, eventually slowing back down to a trot and then a leisurely walk as she rode past cold icy fields.  It was quiet here, only the sounds of her horse and the whisper of fresh snowflakes falling on existing ice.  Winterfell was crowded and loud, even more so now that the Dragon Queen’s army had arrived.  She needed quiet to think properly. 

 

Her breath clouded in front of her face as she walked along the road, not paying much mind to where they were going as thoughts swirled around in her head. She still had the drawing of her weapon on her.  It was rolled up and tucked into the fabric of her tunic, resting between the layers of fabric and leather.  She needed to decide what she was going to do about it, about _him._

 

She chewed on her lip as she thought, a habit her mother had often scolded her for as a child.  She thought about his lips, about his smile when he used to tease her when they had been kids. She thought about his arms, how they had wrapped around her to provide warmth on cold nights when they had traveled together.  Those arms were stronger now, honed by years working in the forge.  She briefly wondered how it would feel to have those arms wrapped around her again. 

 

She decided she wasn’t mad at him anymore.  His refusal to be her family had hurt, but in her heart, she had forgiven him.  Now that she had seen him living and breathing before her, not just another ghost who had left too soon, she couldn’t stay mad at the blacksmith.  The dead were coming, and there was no time for anger at those she cared about.  She needed to make the most of the time that remained. 

 

She turned her horse around, increasing her pace as she rode back to the castle.  Her initial sprint had taken her far, and it took a good deal of time for her to make her way back.  The sun was just setting when she rode through the main gate.  She dismounted and handed the reins to a steward who led her horse back to the stable for a brushing and a feed.  She straightened her tunic, brushing the stray hairs out of her face, retying the bun at the back of her head.  She didn’t want to look too windswept. 

 

She made her way through the darkening corridors of the castle, following its twists and turns until the forge entered her sights again.  She arrived just in time to see a familiar figure duck into the warm glow of the forge.  The Hound.  She could never mistake his hulking presence for anyone else.  They’d spent quite some time traveling side by side, his was another face she would never forget.  She curled into the shadows behind a pillar as she watched the interaction between the bull and the Hound.

 

Gendry lifted an ax from where it hung on the wall, turning it over in his hands before presenting it to the Hound.

 

“It isn’t easy making a blade that big with dragonglass” he mentioned, rubbing the back of his head as Sandor inspected the blade.  He ran his finger along the edge and scowled at the young blacksmith.

 

“You’re saying you’re good, is that it?” he growled, his voice low and rough as he inspected the blade.  Gendry shrugged, rubbing the back of his head as he looked away.  He’d never been able to take proper credit for his work, but he did take pride in every piece he made. He took special pride in the tricky jobs, and that ax had been no easy feat to cast from dragonglass.

 

“I’m just saying, it’s a tricky material to-” The Hound interrupted him with a barking jibe.

 

“You know who makes weapons for the wildlings? Cripples and cocksuckers. Which one are you?” the Hound growled at him, earning a furrowed brow from Gendry as the larger man leaned his weight against a workbench while he criticized the ax.  Neither man was prepared for the voice that rang through the forge, loud and clear even above the din of hammers and the clattering of dragonglass as it was shoveled into the forges.

 

 

“Leave him be…”

 

 


	5. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry's POV
> 
> I know I've taken my damn sweet time to get here. Gendry sees Arya Stark for the first time in years.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

Compared to most of the beds Gendry had slept on in his life, the cot behind the Winterfell forge was one of the nicer ones.  The bedframe was simple but incredibly sturdy and didn’t give or sway when he shifted his weight.  The mattress was nearly half a foot thick and stuffed with fresh dry straw.  He could still smell sweet summer flowers mixed in with the stalks if he pressed his nose to the sheets.  However, the biggest perk in his mind was its location.  The forge was a massive stone structure, and when the fires raged day and night, it heated the stone around it.  This room was built directly up against the back of the forge, and the bed had been pressed up against that wall.

 

The heat radiated off the stones, warming him beneath the thick blankets that he had been given.  There had been a chill that had settled into him when he arrived in the north that even the fires of the forge had difficulty warming.  While he was outside, the cold winter air still pricked at his skin, cooling him but also reminding him of what was coming.  He was thankful for this one respite though, this warm bed to fall into when he could swing his hammer no more. 

 

The light of dawn peeked over the castle walls and in through the window, landing squarely across the blacksmiths face.  He grumbled, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes as he pushed himself up on his elbows.  The day had started, but he didn’t want to leave the warmth of this bed.  He was comfortable here.  Just this small room, he could feel that very quickly it would come to feel like home.

 

_Home._

 

This castle could have been his home many years ago, if he and Arya had ever had success in returning to this place.  If he’d just not been so incredibly stupid as to turn down her offer. He was there now though, after a long road and a few too many brushes with death for his liking.  He’d gone back to Kings Landing after leaving Dragonstone simply because he didn’t know where else to go. When Ser Davos had walked into his shop, he had known in that moment that everything he was waiting for was in front of him. 

 

He’d had a bag packed and ready to go in the corner of his forge for two years, ready to go the moment an opportunity presented itself.  When Ser Davos spoke of a King in the North and a Dragon Queen fighting the army of the dead at Winterfell, it had instantly made sense.  That moment is what he had been waiting for.  He could finally leave this wretched city that had been his only home for so many years.  He hadn’t been able to go to Winterfell with Arya, but he could follow her brother there. 

 

He’d finally made it; he’d just taken the long way around.  He forced himself out of bed, pulling on his boots and tying his trousers.  He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, stretching out the familiar ache in his shoulders before he headed out to the forge.  Embers still glowed deep within, nothing a few logs and a good gust of wind wouldn’t remedy.  The morning air nipped at his skin as he hauled wood to the forge, feeding it into the great mouth.  Flames began to dance over the wood, and quickly the warmth from the fire flooded the forge and surrounding area. He rubbed his hands together, holding them out to the fire for a moment to warm his fingers.  The chill came on quickly here when the warmth of the forge died down.

 

He pulled on his cloak and made his way to the soldier’s breakfast line.  A bowl of oats, a hunk of meat, a mug of warmed ale.  He ate quickly, anxious to return to the forge.  He rinsed out his bowl before handing it back to the girls running the food line.  He didn’t even notice their gaze following him as they whispered to each other behind his back.  He didn’t notice the way they looked at him and giggled.  He didn’t notice any girls anymore really. Only wild girls with gray eyes could capture his attention.

 

 

He returned to the forge, stoking the fire some more, pleased with the embers that glowed within the maw of the forge once more.  Back near the heat of the forge, he didn’t need his cloak anymore and returned it to its hook near his door.  The men around him were just starting their morning tasks.  Dragonglass blades, arrowheads, spears, and araks would need to be forged, tempered, and attached to handles.  They had thousands to arm, and little time to do it. 

 

He’d shown them all the way to work with dragonglass the day before, he had something special to work on today.  His first attempt at the broad ax head was a failure.  The glass had cracked and fractured when he had tried to set it into a handle.  The next attempt was successful though, and by the time the sun hung low in the sky, he held a masterfully crafted broad ax.  Clegane would need something to swing at the dead with when they arrived, and he’d seen the man’s skill with an ax. 

 

He hung the ax on a peg in the forge, telling an apprentice to go tell the Hound that there was a weapon waiting for him in the forge.  He turned back to his work, grabbing a mold and setting it up on its side.  He grasped the stone bucket with his tongs, lifting the crucible containing the molten dragonglass carefully.  He poured the deep violet liquid into the mold, setting the bucket aside and turning to the mold.  When the glow of the molten glass faded, he unlatched the mold and opened it onto the table, six perfect dragonglass arrowheads falling out onto the wooden surface.  Gendry was about to start another batch when a voice called out to him.

 

“Gendry, he’s here,” called one of the smiths.  He turned, grabbing the ax down from its place on the wall and walking towards the entrance of the forge.  Sandor Clegane glowered down at him in the low light of the forge.  He handed over the ax, watching the Hound’s reaction to the weapon.  He was proud of this one, he had to admit it.

 

“It isn’t easy making a blade that big with dragonglass” he mentioned, rubbing the back of his head as Sandor inspected the blade.  He ran his finger along the edge and scowled at the young blacksmith.

 

“You’re saying you’re good, is that it?” he growled, his voice low and rough as he inspected the blade.  Gendry shrugged, rubbing the back of his head as he looked away.  He’d never been able to take proper credit for his work, but he did take pride in every piece he made. He took special pride in the tricky jobs, and that ax had been no easy feat to cast from dragonglass.

 

“I’m just saying, it’s a tricky material to-” The Hound interrupted him with a barking jibe.

 

“You know who makes weapons for the wildlings? Cripples and cocksuckers. Which one are you?” the Hound growled at him, earning a furrowed brow from Gendry as the larger man leaned his weight against a workbench while he criticized the ax.  Neither man was prepared for the voice that rang through the forge, loud and clear even above the din of hammers and the clattering of dragonglass as it was shoveled into the forges.

 

“Leave him be…”

 

She stood there in the darkness of the forge, her hands resting on the weapons at her hips as she stared down the two men.  Gendry felt the air rush from his lungs when he saw her, dressed in leathers and a fine fur cloak, her dark hair pulled back neatly.  She wasn’t much taller than when he had seen her last, but she was not a young girl any longer.  His lips parted slightly as he drank in the sight of her, studying her face in the glow of the firelight.  Her brow was drawn down in a stern line as she locked eyes with the Hound.

 

Clegane turned where he sat to look at her, silence filling the air between the three of them before Sandor spoke.

 

“I heard you were here. You left me to die” he rumbled, his tone accusing as he stared her down.  She returned the gaze, unflinching as she scowled back at him with a ferocity that surprised Gendry.  She was not the girl he had left behind those years ago, nor was she the girl he remembered in his dreams.  She was someone else now, this stone-faced young woman who carried herself like a wolf, her gray eyes calculating and guarded.

 

“First I robbed you” she snipped back, tilting her head up to look at him as the Hound stood and paced towards her.  They stood in the forge in silence for a moment, eyes locked as he stared her down.  She returned the look, her face never changing, never giving away her thoughts.

 

“You’re a cold little bitch, aren’t you?” he said, looking down at her.  The smallest of smiles crossed his scarred face as he nodded down towards her with a look of approval.

 

“Guess that’s why you’re still alive” he mused, turning and walking away with his ax.  He had better things to do than watch a lovesick blacksmith moon over a wolf bitch. Arya watched him leave before turning back to Gendry, fixing him with her steely gaze.  When she spoke, her tone was cool and collected, not at all how she had spoken to him years before.  When her voice had cracked with emotion as she begged him to stay.  Those days were gone now, as was the warmth her voice had once held for him.

 

“That was a nice ax you made for him. You’ve gotten better.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact.  She’d seen his work at Harrenhal, and the weapons he was forging today with a tricky material like dragonglass were far beyond what he had made before out of steel.  Gendry wasn’t sure he remembered how to speak, but somehow, he found a few words.

 

“Yeah, thanks. So have you.  I mean, you look… good.” The words tumbled off his lips before he could even think.  Gods he sounded like a dolt.  _‘you look good’._  What kind of thing was that to say to someone who you’d lost the way he’d lost her?  He half expected her to hit him in the chest like she used to when he said something stupid when they were children.  The blow never came, she just looked at him, her face softening slightly, the barest hint of a smile crossing her face.

 

“Thanks, so do you” She looked at him with something in her gaze that he could not place.  he tore his gaze away from hers, walking back to his workbench, inspecting a dragonglass blade that had been placed there. It was easier not to meet that unreadable gaze at the moment.  Those gray eyes didn’t hold that same warmth for him anymore.

 

“It’s not a bad place to grow up, if it wasn’t so cold” he fussed, running his hand along the edge of the blade, hearing footsteps behind him as she followed him into his workspace.

 

“Stay close to that forge then” she quipped, stepping around to his right side. He could feel her eyes on him, even as he inspected the knives.

 

“Ah, is that a command, Lady Stark?” he teased, smiling down at the blade in his hands as he taunted her, the way he would have taunted her when they were still children. She tilted her head to the side, raising both her dark brows at him as she stared at him with a hint of annoyance on her face.

 

“Don’t call me that”

 

“As you wish, milady” He replied, turning to look at her, that smile still stretched over his face.  She might still be mad at him, but he was just happy to see her again. To know she was alive, that she’d made it even though he’d failed to protect her.  He met her gray gaze as she glowered at him for just a moment at his old nickname for her.  He was ready for the swipe at his shoulder to come, but instead the warmth that he has so been missing from her eyes flooded in.  her look softened and a true smile broke out over her face.

 

His heart had leaped up to his throat when she actually laughed softly and glanced down and away from him.  _‘milady’_ had never earned him that kind of look before.  It had always been punches and shoves, never smiles and laugher and whatever the hell this was. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, toying with a scrap of paper in her hands, as though for a moment she was feeling _shy_. 

 

“Here’s my wish” she said, holding out the rolled up scrap of paper to him.  His brow furrowed as he looked over the drawing.

 

“Can you make it?”

 

“What do you need something like this for?” he asked, looking back to her with questions in his eyes.  She was already armed, but this weapon was different.  She just rolled her eyes at him and let out a short sigh.

 

“Can you make it or not?” she queried him again, tilting her head to the side, raising her brows at him as if daring him to continue questioning her.

 

You already have a sword,” he said, looking her over, noticing the dagger at her hip.  “What’s that?” he said, pointing to the second blade.  She pulled it from its sheath, spinning it expertly between her fingers before handing it to him hilt first.  He took the blade from her, turning it over in his hands.

 

“Its valerian steel!? I always knew you were just another rich girl” he said in a mocking tone, smirking at her as she rolled her eyes at him. He extended the dagger back to her and she tucked it away on her belt once more.  He had missed this, the light easy teasing between them that had come so simply in the years before.  He’d been awkward at first that night, but just a few words between them and he felt the cobwebs of time being brushed away.  There was the girl he’d been missing for so many years, hiding behind the mask of a warrior.  She tilted her head at him, raking her gray eyes over him once more.  He almost shuddered at the feeling. 

 

“You don’t know any other rich girls,” she said tauntingly, stepping away from the table she had been leaning against.  She gave him one more lingering smile before turning away from him as she headed from the forge.  He couldn’t help but follow her with his gaze as she left, hands clasped behind her back as she walked.  He watched her leave, surprised and embarrassed to be caught watching as she spun on her heel near the exit of the forge, throwing him one more playful glance before she flitted away quietly. 

 

He shook his head, running his hands through his short hair. He leaned against one of the pillars of the forge, tugging at the collar of the shirt around his neck.  The night was cold, but he was feeling incredibly warm suddenly.  A feeling curled in his stomach, one that he recognized but hadn’t felt in quite a while.

 

_Want._

 

The heat in her gaze as she spun from his forge had ignited something deep in his core.  He wanted to abandon his tools and chase after her, pull her into his arms and finally get to remember what it felt like to be near her.  He wanted to feel her arms around his neck, feel the tickle of her hair against his face, _the feeling of her lips on his._  He shook his head, rubbing his hands over his face as he let out a low groan.  It had been a long time since they had been children on the road together.  She was a woman now, and he was a man.  He couldn’t help it that her look started a fire in his chest.  He couldn’t help that after missing her for all those years, all he wanted was to hold her close and just _feel_. 

 

He sighed once more.  He knew it now; he was well and truly fucked. 

 

 


	6. Many Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry POV
> 
> Arya's skill with a blade is the likes of which Gendry has never seen before.

 

-  Gendry  -

 

 

Gendry saw Arya around the castle the next few days, but she did not return to the forge.  There were times he could have sworn her felt her eyes on him, but every time he turned there was no one there.  He had seen her walking through the courtyard with her siblings and had even caught sight of her training one morning.  She had always practiced her ‘water dancing’ every morning when they had been kids, but now it wasn’t just a messy balancing act.  Her movements were quick and precise, and she struck with deadly force. She spun around her target with Needle, the whip thin sword that she always carried at her side.  That blade had brought her far, but it would do little against the army of the dead.

 

He had hoped that she might return to the forge to tease him, but she must have been busy with her duties as princess around the castle. Still, perhaps he was on her mind.  Someone had started leaving meals on his workstation in the forge when he looked away for just a moment.  First it had been a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread for lunch, then smoked meat and cheese the next day.  On the third day, he caught a glimpse of a serving girl with warm dark brown eyes and pouty lips peeking into the forge after he had found his lunch.  That must have been who was bringing the food.  She was pretty enough, but he had eyes only for the wild she-wolf.

 

 He had started thinking about Arya’s weapon, but he kept getting drawn away to other tasks.  They needed so many blades, it was impossible to forge enough in time, but he had to try.  He had been making single handed axes that morning, laying another one on a pile.  He’d forged so many over the last day that he’d lost count.  He grasped the tongs in his hand, picking up a molten ingot from the coals, pressing it to his anvil. He brought his hammer down on the metal, pounding it into a new shape before quenching it in a nearby bucket of water. 

 

As the red hot metal met the water, it gave off a loud hiss, and he felt that now familiar chill down his spine.  Someone was watching him again.  He looked up, expecting to find the forge empty save for the smiths, but this time he was proved wrong.  There _she_ was, standing across the way, one of her dark brows quirked up ever so slightly as she studied him.  He suppressed a shudder as her gray eyes raked over his form.  She didn’t say anything, just fixed him with intense gaze, a mischievous smile curled over her lips.

 

“Don’t you have something better to do?” he japed at her, shoving the hissing ingot back into the coals to reheat.

 

“You make my weapon yet?” she quipped back, lifting her chin at him defiantly.

 

“Just as soon as I’m done making a few thousand of these,” he said, picking up an ax from the pile and handing it to her.  She walked past him as she studied it, examining the edge and the handle critically.

 

“You should make mine first. And make sure its stronger than this” she said dismissively, handing the ax back to him.  He lifted it high above his head and slammed it down into a wooden post, the ax burying deep in the hard wood.

 

“Its strong enough,” he said, nodding at her before turning to the table of dragonglass knives, picking up one to inspect it.  He missed the way her brows raised and her eyes raked over him from top to bottom and back up, a wild hunger flashing through her eyes ever so briefly.

“It’s going to be safer down in the crypt, you know,” he said, glancing at her as she leaned against the sturdy wooden pillar of the forge.  She fixed him with an incredulous gaze.

 

“Are you going to be down in the crypt?” she prodded, raising her brows at him in a mocking fashion. He lifted his head to quip back at her, but she cut him off.

 

“No, but-“

 

“But you’re a fighter?” she bit back.  It was a question, but it didn’t truly need an answer.  They were both fighters now, he had seen the way she had moved while she was training.  Her place was no more in the crypt than his was.  Now he felt silly for even suggesting it.  He knew she’d never hide away in the dark while others did the fighting.  It wasn’t in her nature.  It wasn’t in his either.

 

“I’ve done my share,” he said, tearing his eyes away from hers, back to the dragonglass knives in his hands.  He had no love of fighting, but he would fight to his very last breath against the oncoming storm. 

 

“You’ve fought them?” Another prying question, and he still couldn’t meet her gaze. When was he going to stop being such a damn coward?

 

“I did.  Some of them.” He confessed, setting down the knife and picking up another.  He remembered the hiss of their gaping dead maws, their gnashing teeth, their scrabbling claw like hands.  They had been human once, but they had just been reduced to bodies.  Everything that had made them who they used to be had been stripped away by the Other’s magic. 

 

“How many?”

 

“A few…That was enough” he replied, testing the blade against his leather wrist guard.

 

“What are they like?” she was really starting to test his patience with these prying questions.  Every word she spoke made it harder for him to resist the magnetic pull of her gaze on him.  He finally looked up at her, blue eyes meeting gray.

 

“Bad, really bad,” he said, staring at her with a firm look, trying to convey to her the difficulty of the question she was asking him was.  How could he describe the army of the dead to her in a way that wouldn’t scare her?  She frowned at him though, rolling her eyes at his words. 

 

‘Really bad’? she scoffed, pushing off the pillar and walking around him, her brow cocked at him incredulously.

 

“Even a smith’s apprentice can do better than ‘really bad’.” She moved to walk around to the other side of the table, leaning on the wood and leaning in towards him.  her eyes were firm and cool as she stared him down.  There was a hint of annoyance in her eyes, displeasure that he was keeping anything from her. 

 

“What do they look like, what do they smell like? How do they move? How hard are they to kill?” she pressed, her eyes searching his face for the answers.  He swallowed thickly, leaning in closer to her.  Their faces were close as they both leaned over the table, but now was not the time to be thinking of how soft her lips looked.  He resisted reaching out to grasp her hand, though their fingers were almost touching as they both leaned on the table.

 

“Look, I know you want to fight. And I know you’re not scared of rapers or murderers or…this is different.  This is…This is death.  You want to know what they’re like? Death. That’s what they’re like” He wanted to reach out and touch her face, he wanted to make her understand the threat they were facing.  It wasn’t just another enemy for her to best in a swordfight, it was the oncoming storm, and it brought nothing but pain and death.

 

How could he make her understand, he’d been willing to go to the ends of the earth and die in the fight against the dead.  He’d been ready for the end, to fight until his last breath for the living.  Up until the moment Ser Davos had told him that she was still alive.  In that moment, the peace he’d made with his death had fallen away, and all that had mattered was returning to her. She leaned back ever so slightly, trailing her fingers over one of the dragonglass daggers on the table.  An unreadable expression settled over her face as she picked up one of the knives.

 

“I know Death,” she said, lifting her arm and throwing the dragonglass weapon across the forge, the pointed tip sticking deep in the wood of an opposite pillar. Gendry turned his head to look at where the blade had struck, his mouth falling open slightly.

 

“He’s got many faces.” Another dagger flew past his head, the tip burying itself deep in the wood next to its brother, the tips of the knives almost touching the same point in the wood.  Gendry turned to look back at Arya, a surprised smile just barely hovering over his lips as she let loose the final dagger.

 

“I look forward to seeing this one.” She said, the final knife striking the wood between its siblings.  Her display had drawn eyes from around the forge, and whispers were exchanged between men who regarded her with wary glances. Gendry gazed in wonder at the trio of blades stuck in the wood, his chest rising and falling rapidly.  There was no explaining it, but the rush of the blade past his head and the determined steely look in her eyes had ignited that white hot feeling deep in his stomach again. It was hard to think with the majority of his blood rushing south, a confused mixture of fight or flight and arousal.  She had been terrifying and breathtaking all in the same moment, and it had rent him undone.

 

She stepped in front of him, fixing him with a pointed gaze, drawing his eyes to hers.  He couldn’t look away even if he’d wanted to.

 

“My weapon?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on it,” he said, nodding vigorously. His eyes followed her as she strode confidently from the forge.  She didn’t turn back to look at him this time, and he simply shrugged, shaking his head.  He picked up a dragonglass blade, turning it over in his hands as he thought back to the drawing, she had given him.  There was no way he could ever keep her from fighting, but at least he could make sure she stood a chance against the dead.

 

It took him a few tries, but by the time the sun set on the castle, he had finished her staff.  With a twist, the two halves came apart into separate weapons, then slid back together when needed.  The dragonglass blades on each end were longer than the daggers he had been forging before.  He wanted to make sure it would have enough surface area while still staying balanced. 

 

He was never more relieved to finish a weapon when a man arrived in the forge, telling the smiths to put down their hammers and head home to their families. There was no point in continuing to work the forge, the dead would be there before dawn.  What they had was all they had. 

 

Gendry gripped the staff in his hands, looking around at the piles of weapons he had forged in the short time he’d been there.  It wasn’t hardly enough, but it was all they had.  They were running out of time, and he still needed to give Arya her staff.  He wasn’t sure how he knew where to find her.  He’d walked the length of the castle as the smallest of snowflakes drifted through the air.  In the end, his feet had led him back to the forge. Standing in the archway to the forge storeroom, he watched from the shadows as a petite figure drew back a bow with measured discipline, letting an arrow loose to join several others in the center of the target. 

 

Somehow every time he saw her, no matter what she was doing, she managed to take his breath away whenever her eyes met his.  He had thought he’d been quiet when he returned to the forge, but she’d heard him long before he stepped into the light with her staff. The look of wonder on her face as her gaze raked over the weapon in his hands almost sparked a wave of jealousy in him.  How he longed for her to look at him with so much open desire. 

 

“That for me?”

 

 


	7. The Heat of the Forge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya POV, though it turns towards Arya&Gendry POV towards the end. 
> 
> #forgesex
> 
> If you want to understand the feeling behind this moment, listen to War of Hearts (Acoustic Version) by Ruelle. This whole scene was written with those feelings in mind.

-  Arya  -

 

 

It hadn’t quite seemed real the first time she’d heard it.  The dead were coming.  They would arrive at Winterfell before the dawn.  Tonight was their last night before the storm.  She had stood beside her family in the war room, looking over the map of Winterfell and their battle plans.  The more it was discussed, the more a sinking feeling grew in the pit of her stomach.  This plan was the only one they had, and yet it was doomed before the first blade had even been drawn.  They didn’t have the numbers, they barely had the fortifications, and they simply didn’t have the time. 

 

The redheaded wilding was right, they were all going to die.  This would be her last night in the world.  She would meet the God of Death once and for all. That tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind, that warm Bravosi accent that she could just barely hear if she closed her eyes.

 

_What do we say to the God of Death?_

 

_Not Today…_

 

Except that day had come. There would be no dawn for them, today was all they had left. When Jon dismissed them, she found herself wandering around the castle as snow started to fall in the night.  He had instructed them to rest, but there would be no sleep for her that night.  She only had a handful of hours left in this world, she was not going to spend them sleeping.  She found the Hound sitting on the wall of the castle, a wineskin in his hands as he drank alone in the cold. 

 

He looked up at her, wordlessly offering her the wineskin.  She took it from him, uncorking it and taking a sip before sinking down against the rampart beside him.  She had taken him off of her list long ago, but things were still unresolved between them.  Truly, she was glad he didn’t die.

 

She’d almost laughed when he threatened to chuck Ser Berric over the rampart, but there was a heaviness in her heart that didn’t lend itself to laughter. She pushed herself up and off the wall, turning to head back to wards the interior of the castle.

 

“Where are you going?” barked the Hound, looking after her as she stepped away from them in the snow.  She scoffed, rolling her eyes at him, shaking her head.

 

“I’m not spending my final hours with you two miserable old shits” There were other places she wanted to be if tonight was going to be her last.  She thought of her family, of Sansa and Bran and Jon.  They had their own priorities in their final night.  There was only one place she wanted to be, but there was a hint of uncertainty that nagged at her.  She’d spent the last few days watching Gendry in the forge.  She’d worn the face of the pretty serving girl who had worked for the Frey’s, with the pretty almond shaped eyes and the curved pouty lips. 

 

She had been bringing him meals to make sure that he ate but had stayed in the shadows and out of the way, so he didn’t notice her.  She’d let him catch a glimpse of this face on the third day, wanting to see his reaction.  She wanted to see if he looked at other girls the same way he looked at her, as though he could hardly believe she was standing before him.  he’d barley given this visage a second glance, turning back to his work without a second thought.  It had filled her with a fervent possessive feeling to know that his eyes only went stormy and dark for her. 

 

When she made her way to the forge, she found it unusually empty.  Even his room was empty, it was unlike him to leave the heat for so long.  He had promised her a weapon though, perhaps he’d left to try to find her?  She resolved to wait for him there, lifting a bow from a hook on the wall, grabbing a couple of arrows as she made her way to the store room.  She might as well practice while she waited. 

 

She knocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring back to her chin before letting the arrow loose, the tip digging into the makeshift bullseye that hung in the storeroom.  She’d practiced down here years ago to hide from her Lady Mother.  It felt like another lifetime ago when she still had a mother and a father, before she could water dance and change her face. She felt his presence before she heard his footsteps in the forge behind her. Now it was her turn to feel his eyes on her back, watching as she fired another perfect shot into the cluster of arrows.

 

She lowered her bow, turning to face him in the soft glow of the forge.  He stepped into the light, grasping her double ended staff in his hands.  her eyes widened in surprise as she raked her gaze over the weapon.  It was more beautiful than she had imagined, with smooth wood and a soft leather handle in the middle.  Not as beautiful as the man who carried it though.  The diffused light of the fire softened the hard line that had become his jaw, the flickering light reflecting in his warm blue eyes.

 

“That for me?” she queried, setting down her bow and stepping close to him.  he held out the staff to her, watching as she took it into her hands with ease, as though she had already held it a thousand times.  She met his gaze briefly before turning away, spinning the staff in her hands, testing out the balance and weight as she moved.  It was perfect.

 

“This’ll work.” She said, turning back to him, still spinning the staff casually in her hands.  Gendry looked down at his feet and away from her.  She watched him swallow, his lips parting before any words came out, as though he was struggling to find the right ones. He looked back up at her, his blue eyes meeting hers briefly before he looked away again.

 

“Last time you saw me, you wanted me to come to Winterfell.  Took the long road, but…” He lapsed into silence, unable to meet her gaze.  How could he make her see just how much he regretted turning her down those years ago?  He would do anything to turn back time and never let her out of his sight again.  He only looked up when she brushed past him, spinning her new staff as she barked a question at him, breaking the silence.

 

“What did the red woman want with you?” she asked as she paced past him, tilting her head and raising a dark brow as she waited for his answer.

 

“She wanted my blood for some kind of spell” he confessed, looking away from her again, shame flickering across his face.

 

“Why your blood?” The words were sharp and accusatory.

 

“I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard.  I didn’t know until she told me.  Then she tied me up, stripped me down, put leeches all over me…” He watched as she raised her brows at him. he’d always insisted that he wasn’t good enough for her since he was lowborn, but here he was, the son of a king.  The wrong king perhaps, but a king none the less. She looked away from him, pacing across the room as she spun her new staff in her hands.  Hearing that the red woman had stripped away his clothes and teased him brought up a wave of complicated feelings. 

 

“Was that your first time?” she asked, laying her new staff down over a few barrels, not turning to face Gendry for a few moments, her face cool and stoic as she looked at him.  How could she admit that green eyed monster that rose in the back of her mind, the jealousy that someone else had dared touch her blacksmith. 

 

“No, Yeah, I’ve never had leeches put all over my cock-” he stammered, shaking his head, though his words trailed off quickly as she cut him off.

 

“Your first time with a woman,” she clarified, looking at him, an unimpressed look on her face. There was a hint of judgement in her gaze as she watched him.  His eyes went wide, and he gaped like a fish for a moment before making his way across the room towards her.

 

“What? I – I didn’t – I wasn’t with her.” He insisted as he stepped closer to her.  She could see the honesty in his face, the shame burning across his face that she even suggested he had laid with the red woman.  She tilted her head to the side, studying him up and down as she started to pull her gloves off, loosening each fingertip before she pulled off her first glove.

 

“Were you with other girls before that in kings landing? Or after?” she slowly pulled off the fingers of her second glove, watching him as he shook his head, stammering unintelligibly as she laid her gloves over the staff he had crafted for her.  She could see the blush in his cheeks as he struggled to avoid her piercing gaze.

 

“You don’t remember?” she taunted, tilting her head to the other side as she stepped away from where she had laid her gloves, taking a step towards him.  She watched as he squeezed his eyes together tightly.  He couldn’t meet her gaze.

 

“Yes, I was” he grumbled out, glancing up to make brief contact with her stormy grey eyes.  She stared him down, still unfinished with her interrogation. 

 

“One? Two? Twenty?” he knew she was taunting him, baiting him to admit that the women he’d been with before had been nothing.  They hadn’t been nothing, but they definitely hadn’t been her.  The first two had been fumbling tumbles as a teenage boy with a pretty girl, before his master had sold him to the watch and he’d gone on the road with Yoren.  The last one had been an accident.  He’d had too much wine at the tavern in Kings Landing, and when a dark-haired girl with gray eyes had pulled him into her room, he hadn’t resisted.  In his drunken mind, her unfamiliar face had taken the shape of his childhood best friend, and he’d drunkenly groaned out her name into the other woman’s’ neck as he’d come undone on the sheets below them.  The girl hadn’t minded, a whore was used to a man calling out another woman’s name.  She’d still held him close and whispered into his hair.

 

_Sounds like you love her, whoever she is…_

 

“Well, I didn’t keep count.” He lied, looking back at her.  His face fell slightly.  She didn’t believe him.  Of course, she didn’t believe him.  After all these years, she could still see the lie clearly on his face.

 

She fixed him with a stare and a smirk, tilting her head slightly. “Yes, you did” Silence hung between them as she waited, her eyes challenging him to dare lie to her again.  He could never keep anything from her, not anymore.

 

“Three” He admitted quietly, looking back up at her, discomfort clear across his face.  He was ashamed to admit that he’d laid with women, especially the latest.  He was a man now, he had needs.  He wasn’t sure why he was trying to justify his past actions to himself as she stood there with him at the end of the world in the darkness of the forge storage room.  He just didn’t want her to think any less of him now that she knew. 

 

She raked her gaze over his face, the harsh look she had been giving him moments before softening.  Here they were, at the end of all things, truly alone together at last.  She swallowed thickly, trailing her gaze down the curve of his neck, across his broad shoulders and chest.  She’d heard her sister drone on about handsome knights and wanting to kiss boys all those years ago and had always found the notion silly.  Now at the end of her life, there was nothing more in this world she wanted to do than kiss the stubborn, bull headed boy in front of her.

 

“We’re probably going to die soon; I want to know what its like before that happens. I want to know that…” her words caught in her throat as she spoke, hanging unspoken between them in the cool night air.  _I want to know that you love me._ She took a step closer to him, looking up into his face, daring him to deny her now.  She watched as he sucked in a shallow breath, his pupils growing even wider in the darkness as a new emotion filled them. _Desire._

 

“Arya, I -” His words were cut off as she stepped forward, her hands cupping his cheeks as she pulled him down to kiss him deeply.  His eyes closed half way as he leaned into the kiss, a shudder running down his spine as he inhaled sharply.  He wasn’t sure when his arms had wrapped around her, but he relished in the feeling of her body pressed close to his.  Her lips tasted faintly of wine, and something else sweet that he couldn’t place.  Their kisses only broke briefly for air before he leaned down and captured her lips with his again.  This was their last night, _their only night_.  They needed to make it count.

 

Even as they kissed, her movements imparted a sense of urgency to the moment.  Her fingers unclasped the buckle that held the cloak to his shoulders, pushing it away before starting to tug on his belt.  His own hands untied the belt around her waist, letting Needle and Catspaw fall away into the dirt of the floor of the forge.  Normally they would have both treated these weapons with greater care, but there was no time for that.  This was all the time they had. 

 

Her hands made quick work of the ties of his shirt, and before he could think she had tugged it up over his head and tossed it aside.  The dark hungry look in her eyes as she raked her gaze across his chest made his stomach twist with need.  He moved to pull her back into his arms, but she placed her hands on his bare chest and shoved him with a force he was surprised by.  He fell back onto the stack of grain sacks, his breathing labored as he watched her hands make quick work of the ties for the rest of her clothes.

 

She lifted her shirt, tossing it aside, her eyes trained on his face as she did so.  She wanted to see what he thought of her.  His blue eyes raked over her form, lingering for a moment on the dark scars that interrupted her smooth, pale skin.  A flash of pain crossed his face as he looked over them.  Those scars hadn’t been there last time he’d seen her when they were children.  From the sheer number and severity of the scars, someone had tried to kill her.  Anger bubbled just below the surface as he thought about someone trying to take her away from him prematurely.  He would have wanted to kill them, but something nagging in the back of his mind told him that whoever had failed to kill her had surely met their end in return. 

 

He let his gaze return to her eyes as she undid the knots of the ties of her pants. He could ask about her scars later, if later ever came.  For now, she stood partially bare before him, and in that moment, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She looked over him, quirking a dark brow at him as she began to push her pants off her own hips.

 

“I’m not the red woman, take your own bloody pants off,” she teased him, a small smirk crossing her face as she kicked off her boots.  She stepped out of her trousers, standing naked before him in the soft light of the forge.  He scrambled to undo the ties of his own trousers, scrabbling to tug off his boots and pants.  He barely had time to kick away his boots so she wouldn’t trip over them before she had climbed into his lap, her hips straddling his.

 

She placed her hands on the grain sacks behind his head, leaning down to kiss him deeply.  It was slower now, the frantic rush of before having faded into something deeper.  She pressed her body against his, a shudder rippling through her as he wrapped her in his arms.  His hands roamed over her body, from her hips up her back, across her shoulders. He wanted to feel every inch of her, and she loved the way his calloused hands worked trails of fire over her skin at his touch. 

 

She’d spent time working in a Bravosi whorehouse as part of her training.  She’d seen glimpses of pairs coupling, as well as spoken to the girls who worked there.  She knew the basics, where things were supposed to go, what to expect for the first time.  Arya reached down between them, a strangled groan falling from Gendry’s lips as she wrapped her hand around his cock.  She leaned in to kiss him deeply as she began to guide him to her entrance, but much to her shock he pulled away, shaking his head.

 

“Not yet, you’re not ready,” he murmured, pulling back a bit to look at her.  Anger flashed across her face as she leaned back in his lap, a sharp reply already on her lips.  How dare he insinuate she wasn’t ready for this?  Had he not kissed her back? Had he not tugged at her clothes with that very same urgency.  As though reading her thoughts, he shook his head, leaning up to kiss her gently.

 

“If you’re not ready, it will hurt… I could never…” he trailed off, looking up at her with his bright blue eyes.  He reached up to cup her cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing gently across her cheekbone.  His words had tempered the storm in her eyes, and he couldn’t help the flutter in his heart when she leaned her cheek into his palm, closing her gray eyes for a moment as she relished his touch.  He didn’t want to cause her any pain in this moment. If this was to be their last night, he wanted this memory to be only good. 

 

Her eyes opened and she gazed back at him.  The ferocious she-wolf who had shoved him back on the sacks of grain had fled from her gaze.  Now it was just them, with nothing but a few centimeters of air between them.  Just Arya and Gendry. The bravado she’d displayed a few moments before was gone.  She had moved as though she’d known what she was doing, but this was still all brand new for her. 

 

“How?” she whispered, a flush creeping over her face as she looked down at him.  Her heart turned flips when he smiled up at her, his hand sliding from her cheek around to the back of her neck, toying with her hair gently. 

 

“Let me,” he murmured in return, leaning in to kiss her deeply.  He kissed her more deeply than before, nibbling on her bottom lip lightly.  She groaned softly into his mouth, and he took that opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth.  She returned the kiss fervently, her tongue curling out to meet his as their bodies pressed together.  He broke the kiss only to pepper her skin with his lips as he worked his way across her jaw down to the curve of her neck.  She sucked in a sharp breath when his lips settled over her pulse point, her eyes sliding closed as she committed the feeling of his lips on her skin to memory.

 

She gasped, her eyes flying open when his hand slid between them and one of his calloused fingers slid over the crease of her sex.  Heat smoldered in her core, but he had been right that her body was not ready yet.  Her hips jerked into his hand when his thumb found her clit, starting to rub in slow circles.  Each curl of his thumb sent shudders down her spine, like bolts of lighting that started in her core and flooded through her body, wave after wave.  Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his skin slightly as her eyes closed again. 

 

He smiled against her skin, taking a moment to lavish attention on the sensitive point on her neck.  Hearing her moan as he touched her made his cock throb with need, but he could wait.  He had waited years for her, he could wait a few minutes more.  She cried out when he pressed one finger carefully into her, the wetness of her beyond evident now.  He pulled his hand away from her core, ignoring the whine of protest that slipped past her lips.  She looked down at him as he lifted his head from her neck, looking up at her.

 

He slid his hands along her thighs, lifting her hips before guiding himself to her entrance.  Her eyes grew wide as she pressed her body down against him, sucking in a sharp breath at the sensation of him filling her body.  It was something she had imagined, but the true feeling was something else entirely.  She’d heard from the Bravosi whores that a woman’s first time often would hurt, but there was very little discomfort now.  She stopped her movements for a moment when she bottomed out on him, their bodies pressed completely together.  Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she ran her hands across his shoulders and chest, leaning down to capture his lips once again before she started to move.

 

It was slow at first as she got used to the sensation, lifting her hips carefully before sinking back down towards him, groaning breathlessly against his lips. His arms wrapped around her as he pulled her close, his eyes half lidded as she ground their bodies together. It was so hard for him to resist the twitch of his own hips as pleasure overwhelmed him.  This was her moment though, and as he’d said before; he could never do anything to cause her pain.  She ground her body against his, panting into his lips as sweat began to prick along their bodies from the exertion.

 

He was surprised when a frustrated growl slipped past her lips, and he lifted his eyes to meet her gaze.  The sight before him made his mouth grow dry as he looked at her, their faces impossibly close, nose to nose as she rode him.  Her face was flushed and pink, her hair having fallen loose from the knot at the back of her head, framing her face in the low light.  To him, she was the most beautiful thing in the whole world.

 

“Please,” she whimpered against his lips, her hands scrabbling to find purchase against his chest. 

 

“Please, Gendry… I need… more…” When she moaned his name, begging for more, it broke something inside him.  Though he was but a bull, the growl that slipped past his lips was much more that of a wolf.  He wrapped his arms around her, lifting their bodies off the sacks of grain before rolling them over so she laid beneath him now.  Her legs curled around his waist instinctively, pulling their bodies closer together as they groaned in unison. 

 

The changed angle granted him different leverage, and he began to thrust into her in earnest.  Her moans changed from soft and breathy to deep and guttural as she raked her hands across his shoulders.  Their bodies collided, lips brushing in between frantic breaths as he ground their forms together.  He could feel his own release building in the back of his core, but he needed to take care of her first.  He leaned one hand against the sacks of grain, sliding the other between them to rub circles on the nub of her clit with his fingers. 

 

She cried out against his lips as the added stimulation pushed her over the edge.  Pleasure rippled through her body, making her clench around him as stars burst across her vision.  His name tumbled from her lips as her eyes fluttered closed, her chest heaving.  Watching her come undone beneath him was all it took to bring his own release, and it took every ounce of his strength to pull from her heated depths and spill himself onto the pale skin of her belly. 

 

His arms trembled as he held himself over her, the sudden post orgasmic weakness flooding his limbs.  He leaned down, kissing her lightly, their labored breath mingling together in their shared closeness.  Her fingers caressed his cheek gently as they kissed, and Gendry found himself wishing he could stay here with her forever. 

 

They didn’t have forever though, only until the sound of the horns. He pulled away, standing on shaky legs to grab his cloak from where the had so hurriedly discarded it.  He climbed back onto the sacks of grain beside her, using a scrap of cloth to wipe the sticky mess from the skin of her stomach.  Even though this was their last night, he couldn’t risk putting a bastard in her belly.  He draped the cloak over their sweat slick bodies, the icy winter air pricking at his exposed skin. 

 

His heart melted as she turned her gaze to meet his, her chest still rising and falling rapidly as she came down from the high of their release.  There was so much they both wanted to say to the other, but they still had time.  At least a little.  She rolled over onto her side, pressing her body against his, her arm curling across his chest.  She leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth gently, resting her head on his chest as her fingers traced slow swirls on his skin.  He smiled, nuzzling his nose against her forehead, breathing in the sweet smell of her hair.  Under the warmth of his cloak, the heat of her body pressed to his side, it was no surprise that sleep found Gendry quickly. 

 

Arya sat up slightly when she heard the first soft snores coming from her Gendry. She looked down at him as he laid there, feeling the warm weight of his arm curled around her waist.  It made her chest ache to look at him now, knowing this was the only time they had.  If they’d had the time, she would have given him most of her days, and the entirety of her nights, for the rest of her days.  This was the only night they had though.  She leaned in to press a gentle kiss to the crown of his brow before settling back down against his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull her to sleep.  Nightmares did not plague her dreams, not while she was safe in the arms of her blacksmith.

 

 


	8. Before Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> there's never enough time

-  Gendry  -

 

 

He didn’t sleep for long.  It was the sensation of her warmth pulling away from his side that roused him from slumber.  He turned his head to look at her, now facing her shoulder as she laid on her other side.  He could see the scars on her sides once more, standing out dark against her pale skin in the low candlelight.  He hesitated for just a moment but thought better of it, letting his hand reach out to spread over her side gently.  He knew Arya didn’t like to be touched unexpectedly, but with nothing between them anymore, he figured he was an exception to the rule.

 

 His hand slid forward, his fingers sliding over the ridged scars that lined her stomach.  He wrapped his arm around her, drawing her back close against his chest as he nuzzled his face against the soft curve of her shoulder.  He felt her shudder when he pressed a soft kiss to her skin, her body curling back towards his, pressing herself closer to him. 

 

“Gendry…” she murmured as she rolled over, facing him again.  He would never grow tired of hearing his name from her lips.  He smiled as she leaned up to kiss him, pulling her closer once more.  He knew they were running out of time, but he couldn’t let her go yet.  He wanted as many moments as he could steal, wanted to imprint the feeling of her body onto his.  If they lost, _when they lost,_ he wanted the last thing he remembered to be the feeling of her wrapped in his arms. 

 

“Stay with me, just a little longer,” he whispered to her, reaching up to caress her cheek gently.  Her gray eyes met his, and he could see the swirling mass of emotions they held.  Fear, concern, hints of pain and sadness, but above all that he could see that soft warmth they held only for him.  She nodded, claiming his lips once more as she pulled him closer.  She didn’t have to be so insistent; didn’t she know he would give her everything if he could?

 

They parted only for air, resting their foreheads together as they caught their breath in the dark.  She wrapped one leg around his hips, pulling their bodies closer under the warmth of his cloak.  If she wanted him again, he would never have considered denying her, but she didn’t push any further.  He knew, she just wanted to feel him, as much as he longed to feel her.  He held her close, pressing her close to his chest as he ran his hands slowly over the bare skin of her back.  He caressed over her shoulders, trailing his fingertips down her arm until he captured her fingers with his own.  Slowly, he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the tip of each of her fingers worshipfully.

 

He smiled at the blush that spread across her face at his actions.  Had they the time, he would have taken hours to kiss every inch of her skin, scars included.  Instead, he kissed her wrist gently, leaning his face into her palm as he swept his eyes over her.  He never wanted this moment to end, with her body pressed to his, breath mingling in what little space there was between them.  He nearly forgot where he ended, and she began. She laid her head back down on his chest, her hands running in circles over his skin. 

 

He hadn’t realized he had been staring until she turned her gaze up to meet his, her brows furrowing slightly.

 

“What?” she pressed, tilting her head as she looked at him.  There was something in the way he was looking at her that tugged at her heart.  Something she didn’t quite have the word for yet. He smiled, caressing her cheek gently. His words made her heart turn flips in her chest as she looked up at him, searching for a lie in his eyes that never came.

 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, chuckling when she smacked his chest lightly, giving him a vicious scowl that didn’t reach her eyes.

 

“Stupid bull,” she growled, leaning up to kiss him deeply.  No one had ever called her beautiful before.  She had been Arya Underfoot, Arya Horseface, Arya in boys clothing.  But his eyes hadn’t lied to her, and neither had he.  He had called her beautiful and meant it.  Had it not been so hard for him to find the words, he would have told her that she was the most beautiful thing he had seen in his whole life.  She pulled back from their kiss when she needed to breathe again, settling back down with her head against his shoulder. 

 

Silence fell between them as they laid there, his fingers trailing along her upper arm and shoulder, as though he needed to continuously confirm her presence.  Her hand pressed firmly against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart against her palm.  Finally alive, finally together, and about to die.  Gendry closed his eyes, burrowing his nose into her hair as he squeezed her close.  He almost drifted into sleep once more but was brought back to the present when he felt her press a feather light kiss to his chest.  He swallowed thickly, trying to find the right words to say to her.  How could he apologize for such old mistakes?

 

“I shouldn’t have turned you down… I would have been lucky to be your family,” he whispered into her hair.  He was lucky for every second she was curled in his arms, but by the gods, he wished they had more time.  He felt Arya shudder against his chest, and he pulled the cloak higher around them, thinking she might be cold.  His heart wrenched when he felt a single hot tear drop onto his chest.  His own eyes burned suddenly, filled with the tears he’d tried so hard not to shed for her when he had thought her dead. 

 

He didn’t search for her gaze, not now.  He knew if he met her eyes now, he wouldn’t be able to keep his emotions in check.  He should have known that she could undo him with more than her gaze though.  It was her next whispered words that did it. 

 

“You _always_ were my family.” Her voice cracked slightly with raw emotion, the likes of which she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in many years.  She pressed her face deeper into his chest, he knew trying to hide her tears from him, but he felt them on his skin.  He tightened his embrace around her, screwing his eyes shut as stray tears leaked from the corners.  The sound of the battle horn echoing over the castle broke the quiet between them, and the pain of reality forced a couple more tears from his eyes.  Their time was up, it was time to fight. 

 

Arya pulled away from his chest, looking at him with dark gray eyes like the storm.  They were ringed with pink, and stray tears clung to her lashes.  The silent hung between them, filled with all the words they had been meaning to say.  There was no time left.  He could only groan as she leaned in and kissed him deeply, reaching up to cup her cheek in his hand before she pulled away.  She slid out from under his cloak, gathering her discarded clothes quickly.  He shoved the cloak aside, starting to pull on his smallclothes as well, though his eyes kept wandering back to her.  She was dressed and ready before he could finish pulling on his shirt, still needing to lace his boots and cloak. 

 

She strode across the store room, picking up the staff he had made for her.  She turned and made as if to leave, whipping around when he grabbed her hand. 

 

“Arya…” he muttered her name, his brows pinching as he gazed at her, squeezing her hand.  He just wanted a few minutes more, but another blast of the horn broke his fantasy.  She freed her hand from his grasp, curling her fingers into the fabric of his jerkin, pulling him towards her.  She kissed him, deeply and without reserve.  She kissed him as though she were dying of thirst and he were water.  She kissed him as though she would never kiss him again.  When she pulled back, his eyes were dark and sad as he gazed at her. She released her hold on his shirt, taking a step back and pulling that cool mask of calm over her face. She offered him a small, sad smile as she looked him over, taking another step away.

 

“Don’t die.”  He wanted to chase after her, but now was not the time anymore.  She had places to be, and so did he. He nodded to her before she turned away, disappearing into the shadows as she made her way to the rampart to oversee the battle.  His heart was in his throat as he whispered the words, more as a promise to himself than anything. 

 

“Yes, Milady…”

 

 

 


	9. Daybreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> Alright, S8 E4 sucked, and this fic is now officially non-canon compliant. The show skipped so much and left out EVERYTHING important, so here's what I think we were all missing.

-  Arya  -

 

 

Each breath stung, a growing pain in her side evident as she stood among the shattered remains of the Night King.  She panted as she looked around the Godswood, her gaze raking over the field of the dead, finally still as they lay in the snow. Jon had been right all along.  The Night King had been the key this whole time.  She swallowed thickly, aware of the ache in her throat from where his icy hands had squeezed her neck.  Another bruise to add to her impressive collection.  A sense of calm had overtaken her when she’d spoken to the red woman.  There had been a day when Melissandre had been on her list, but there was no time for her list in that long night.  Those words, the ones she so often whispered to herself, had given her strength when she needed it the very most. 

 

_Not today._

 

The red woman had been right in the end.  She closed many eyes.  Brown eyes, green eyes, _blue eyes._   She’d faced death in pale blue eyes all night long, stared down the avatar that Death had sent to test her, and rent him to shards.  Now when she closed her own eyes, the only blue ones she cared about had gazed at her with such emotion and longing only a few hours prior.  She hadn’t seen him since leaving him half dressed in the forge store room.  He had been headed for the front lines; it would have taken a miracle to keep him from death’s cold grasp in the battle they’d just faced. 

 

Her breathing grew quick and shallow as she looked around the Godswood.  She could hear the sounds coming from the castle.  The cries of joy, the screams of loss, the whimpers of pain that fell from the lips of those that still breathed.  They would be coming, searching for the one who had ended the long night.  She wasn’t sure that she was ready to face anyone yet. 

 

“Go, someone will come to find me soon,” she whirled around, fixing her grey eyes on those of her strange younger brother.  He wasn’t really Brandon Stark anymore, but she loved him still. Somehow, he understood that she simply couldn’t be here now, couldn’t face anyone just yet.  It took only a few moments for Jon to burst through the door to the Godswood, sword still gripped in his blood-soaked hands.  His brows furrowed as he looked over the scene with confusion.  He locked eyes with Bran, the question on his lips, but his breath too labored to speak.

 

“It was Arya.  It was always meant to be Arya,” the youngest Stark said, fixing Jon with his cold unreadable gaze.  Jon staggered closer, leaning his shoulder against the trunk of the Weirwood tree as he looked around the Godswood.  His voice was hoarse as he managed to find a single word.

 

“Where?”

 

Bran shook his head.  “She’s left the Godswood.  She needs to find someone.  The She-wolf hunts for her Stag” Jon shot his younger brother a confused look, but simply shook his own head.  He could agonize over Bran’s cryptic words later, the battle had been won, but there was work still to be done. 

 

For once in his time as the three eyed raven, Bran had been wrong about one thing.  Arya hadn’t yet left the Godswood when Jon arrived.  Her first instinct had been to listen, pressing her back against a nearby tree as she heard their voices over the clearing.  She peered around the tree, watching as Jon leaned down to press a kiss to her brother’s hair, starting to push Bran’s chair back towards the main castle. She could see the way he leaned on the wheeled chair to support himself.  They’d all suffered injuries that night.

 

Her feet carried her from the Godswood, not her normally silent footsteps as she stepped over countless corpses.  As the adrenaline faded from her, she was starting to feel everything again. The pain in her side was sharp and digging.  She must have bruised a few ribs.  She hadn’t noticed the cuts on her arms and legs initially, but now she could see the blood that stained her leather tunic was red and fresh and her own. 

 

She stepped into the shadows of one of the arches that led into the main courtyard, her breath catching in her throat as she looked over the scene inside.  The dead were countless, bodies strewn in piles around the walls.  The ground was soaked with blood, and among the countless dead moved what remained of the living.  Soldiers trudged back from the field, men leaning on each other to walk as the injured made their way to the main keep.  She watched with a heavy heart as the woman and children left the crypt, many of the woman starting to search through the bodies with tear stained faces. 

 

She heard a broken wail from her left, turning her head sharply to see a young woman cradling the broken body of a man.  Tears poured down her face as she sobbed into his bloodstained tunic. The hole in his stomach was not one that could heal, but the woman applied pressure where his blood rose up against her hands.  The man reached up with what strength he had left, caressing her cheek gently before she leaned in to press a kiss to his bloodstained lips.  Arya didn’t have to hear, she read the words that fell from the man’s lips before the light faded from his eyes. _I love you._   The woman screamed.

 

She wrenched her gaze away, turning to make her way through the courtyard.  After her conversation with the red woman, she had been fearless and confident. She had known what she needed to do, and it had been done.  Now in the aftermath, fear crept back into her mind as her eyes scanned the faces of the corpses that were strewn about the castle. 

 

_Not today._

 

Would it break her when she found his body?  Would she sink down screaming as that other woman had?  Would she be able to watch as they loaded him onto a funeral pyre and sent him to meet the gods without her?  These thoughts weren’t helping as she staggered through the carnage.  Her head began to ache, the blow to her forehead clouding her thoughts.  She wasn’t sure how many corpses she turned over, but she still hadn’t found him. 

 

She watched as Daenerys came staggering back from the battlefield, blood staining her white furs.  The Queen had been crying.  They had all lost someone that night.  She lurked in the shadows as she watched Jon push Bran into the courtyard from the Godswood.  Sansa had thrown herself into Jon’s arms, her proper sister not caring about getting blood and gore on her dress in that moment.  She could see them discussing something, Sansa’s eyes growing wide at some news.  She supposed Bran had told Jon what she had done.  Her little brother had never known how to lie.  She would go to them later. 

 

Once more, her feet led her to the forge.  It was relatively undamaged, a couple bodies strewn near the entrance, but it seemed the dead hadn’t wanted to draw too close to such a source of fire.  There were still embers glowing weakly in the forge, waiting to be stoked back to life.  There was little warmth left here.  Fitting the forge would die out and leave her cold and alone, much as his death had.  If there was ever a man in this world she had loved, it had been him.  _It had always been him._

 

She leaned her hand against the stone, still able to feel the fading warmth through the leather of her glove.  Her head spun as emotion threatened to overwhelm her, her heart aching just as much if not more than the wound on her head.  She closed her eyes, bracing against the stone as her face contorted in pain.  For the briefest of moments, she regretted going to him the night before.  Maybe it would have been better to have never known that feeling at all. She hadn’t expected it to hurt this much, losing him.

 

The world went silent around her, her eyes opening slowly as she leaned against the stone.  She lifted her head slowly, a twisting warmth growing in the pit of her stomach as she felt someone’s gaze on her back.  She had always been able to sense his presence, but it took all her conviction to turn and face him now.  She was terrified of being wrong.    

 

He leaned on the handle of his Warhammer, blood and filth covering his clothes.  His shirt was torn and bloodstained, especially on his left side, the side he supported with his weapon.  His blue gaze burned into hers, and the joy that they held knocked the air from her lungs.  She didn’t run to him; she didn’t have the strength left for that.  She limped across the forge, throwing her arms around his neck when she got close enough, the force of her hug staggering him.

 

The Warhammer dropped to the ground as he wrapped both arms around her in return.  He took a step back, leaning against one of the wooden pillars to support himself as he held her close.  They stood like that for what felt like hours, though only a handful of minutes passed.  When they pulled apart, Arya took that moment to look up at him, gray eyes meeting blue once more.  The emotion they held took her breath away. 

 

“You didn’t die,” she whispered, one of her hands resting on the back of his neck, caressing along the edge of his jaw with her gloved thumb.  She hadn’t thought it was possible, but his gaze softened as he smiled at her, reaching up a bloodied hand to touch her cheek.

 

“You told me not to,” he said quietly, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers.  Normally she would have shoved his chest, called him a stupid bull, taunted him.  There was time for that later.  _Plenty of time._ She leaned in closer to his chest, half closing her eyes as she stood with him in the pale light of the dawn.  She tilted her head up, brushing a gentle kiss to his lips. The hunger and urgency of the night before had fled from her.  She had truly believed that this dawn wouldn’t come, that those hours were going to be their only ones.  Now the night was gone, and there was no need for haste in this moment.  He leaned into her kiss, returning it just as tenderly. 

 

When they broke apart, he studied her face, his gaze narrowing as he zeroed in on the wound on her forehead.  She winced slightly when he brushed his fingers near the cut, looking up at him.

 

“You need a healer,” he said quietly, looking down at her with concern.  She frowned, raking her eyes over him, more aware of the wounds he was suffering as well now.

 

“So do you.  Should have known someone as bull-headed as you would go out to face the dead without a sword,” she teased, gesturing to his side.  They both chuckled lightly, though the joy was cut off when they both hissed in pain at the jarring to their sides.  She’d learned how to kill at the house of Black and White, but she’d also learned to heal.  She’d had to patch her own wounds, tend to her own bruises, stitch her skin when the Waif had split it with her blows.  She could mend him now. 

 

She leaned up to kiss him again, stepping out of his arms, though her hand reached out to grip his.  She wasn’t willing to let him go just yet, not after she’d just found him.

 

“Follow me,” she said softly, tugging gently on his hand, her tired gaze meeting his.

 

“Anywhere…”


	10. The Quiet Afterwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> There isn't much dialog in this chapter. Given its title, I think it appropriate. 
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone for your wonderful comments, my heart does little flips every time I get a notification. Your feedback is fuel to the fire that keeps the words coming, thank you!

-  Gendry  -

 

 

Every muscle in his body burned, but Gendry knew the moment he stopped swinging his hammer was the moment he stopped breathing.  If he stopped breathing, he would never make it back to her like he promised.  He feared he might still fail though, crushing what seemed like endless waves of the dead, but they kept coming.  A blade caught his side under his armor, sending fresh waves of pain and fury through him as he redoubled his efforts.  Tormund battled near his side, and out of the corner of his eye he caught glimpses of Ser Brienne and Jaime, fighting side by side even as the swarms of the dead pressed their backs up against the castle wall. 

 

His hammer collided with another skull, pain searing through him as he lifted it over his head to swing again.  Each time he lifted the dragonglass hammer, it seemed to grow heavier and heavier in his grasp.  _They were losing._  He let out a scream of rage as he brought his hammer down once more, spinning atop his pile of the dead as they began to overwhelm him.  He could feel their dead fingers clawing at his clothes, trying to pull him down towards them, and it took all his remaining strength to shove them away.  He lifted his hammer for what he was sure was his final swing when suddenly the dead dropped away, falling to the ground, lifeless once more.

 

The blue glow faded from their eyes, those of the recently dead returning to the colors they’d known in life.  His chest heaved as he stood among the pile of corpses, arms trembling as he slowly lowered his hammer.  He was waiting for the dead to leap back to life, to swarm over him and drag him down to his death, but it never came.  The Night King was dead.  The living had won.

 

He stood in shock as the redheaded wildling let loose a howl of joy at their victory, only coming back to himself when the man pulled him into a crushing bear hug.  They climbed down the pile of bodies that they had stood upon, and Gendry felt his knees buckle when he touched back down on solid ground.  Tormund left his side to rush towards some other survivors, leaving him at the entrance to Winterfell, leaning on the handle of his hammer. 

 

He made his way past the mounds of the dead, limping as the pain started to wash over him.  he hadn’t paid attention to his wounds during the battle, but now that the fighting had ended and the adrenaline that had rushed through him was fading, everything came into sharp focus.  His left side screamed in pain from where the wight’s blade had sliced him, and his leg hadn’t fared much better.  At some point he had been stabbed in the thigh. 

 

He stopped in the courtyard, raking his gaze over the corpses littered around him.  He could only pray that he wouldn’t find her face among them.  When he’d stood at the front lines, facing off with the dead, his only thoughts had been of her.  Of the touch of her fingers on his skin, of her warm body curled against his chest, of her beautiful gray eyes, filled with so much emotion it had made his heart ache.  She hadn’t intended to live through the night, but neither had he.

When they’d parted ways, he’d shed a few more tears in private before making his peace with his death and heading to stand with the other soldiers.

 

Now he was here, he was alive, and all he wanted to do was see those eyes again.  He stood in the courtyard, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to gather his thoughts.  She hadn’t been among the Stark reunion just minutes before, but there were no screams or tears from her siblings, only sad smiles as they stood together.  Either they hadn’t found her and didn’t know her fate, or they had, and she lived.  He found himself praying to all the gods, old and new, that it was the latter.

 

Stumbling and tired, his feet pulled him towards the forge.  He wanted a moment away from the din around him, to find some warmth by the flames and clear his head.  That deep ache in his chest grew with every step he took, and by the time he reached the archway to the forge, it threatened to consume him.  His breath caught in his throat as he saw the figure that leaned against the stone of the forge.  He didn’t need to see her face; he knew it was her. 

 

As though she knew he stood there, she turned, and the pained look on her face as she took in the sight of him made his chest ache once more.  Then suddenly, his arms were full as she threw herself against him.  He staggered back up against the pillar of the forge, pressing her close against his chest, his fingers curling into her hair.  Weak as he felt, he could have stood there with her forever, relishing the simple fact that they were both alive. 

 

When they pulled apart, he took in the sight of her, the blood on her face and in her hair, the bruises starting to form on her pale skin.  Her eyes searched his body with just as much fervor and concern, but with her so close to him, he wasn’t feeling the pain of his wounds anymore.  It had pulled a laugh from his lips when she called him a stupid bull, though the action made his side sting in pain.  He’d happily be insulted by her for the rest of his days. 

 

Her fingers wrapped around his when she finally pulled out of his grasp, and her words had quietly begged him to follow her.  Didn’t she know? He would have followed her to the edge of the world if she asked.

 

First, she led him to his own chambers, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before taking it upon herself to rifle through his things.  He barely noticed the clean clothes she held in her arms when she took his hand again and led him from the forge.  The castle was swarming with people, the sound of muffled sobs and the groans of the wounded filling the great hall.  It wasn’t hard for them to slip through the back halls unnoticed, just two more fighters, covered in blood and filth, seeking shelter in the castle. 

 

Through twists and turns, he followed her, until the sounds of the castle faded away.  She pushed open a heavy wooden door and led him into a room, closing it behind them.  He looked around now, at the large bed covered in furs, at the row of boots neatly tucked against one wall, at Needle resting unused on the desk.  They were in her chambers.  _Alone._ He turned to face her, his mouth opening as he started to speak, but she shook her head.

 

“Sit,” She commanded, gesturing to the chair by her desk.  He obeyed. He watched as she carried over a bucket of water from the corner, stopping to open a drawer and pull out a healer’s satchel.  Another skill he would have to ask her about later.  Wordlessly, she undid the ties of his tunic, pulling it off over his head with none of the urgency of the night before.  He sucked in a breath as his shirt followed suit, his heart racing as he watched her eyes rake over him.  It was a studying gaze though, not one filled with desire.  Now she was assessing his injuries. 

 

He groaned when she pressed the wet cloth against the wound on his side, the pain rushing back to him now.  She didn’t tease him when he whined at the feeling of the needle pierce his skin as she stitched him back together.  She worked carefully and methodically as she cleaned the blood and sweat from his skin, wrapping bandages around his chest and leg.  All his life he had been alone, no one had cared about him before.  Yet here he was, a bastard under the gentle care of the she-wolf of Winterfell.  She helped him ease the clean shirt over his head, and he managed to pull on the fresh trousers on his own. 

 

She stepped away from him then, her hands starting to work at the ties of her tunic, though he watched her fingers tremble with exhaustion.  He stepped forward, putting as little weight on his left leg as possible as he reached for her.  He took her hands in his own, squeezing them gently as he pulled them away from her tunic. 

 

“My turn,” he whispered, smiling at her tenderly.  A tired smile curled across her face as she looked up at him, nodding before moving to sit in the chair herself.  Gendry knelt before her, unlacing her boots and pulling them off, watching as she curled and flexed her toes.  He reached up to finish untying her tunic, easing it off over her head.  Much in the same was as she had done to him, her shirt followed suit, and he scanned her body for injuries.  What pained him most was the realization that she was far more wounded than he realized.

 

Her side was red and purple, a deep bruise forming there, but he was worried about the cuts to her skin.  They were superficial, but he couldn’t imagine the pain she must have been in, and to have spent such time tending to his wounds while dealing with her own pain.  She grit her teeth through the discomfort as he had cleaned and bandaged her wounds, but had barely flinched when he so carefully stitched the wound above her eye closed.  It would scar, but to him, nothing could detract from her beauty. 

 

He helped her rinse the blood out of her hair, and only when he had wiped the grime from every inch of her skin did she redress.  She pulled on a pair of breeches and a loose shirt, not bothering to pull her hair back again, letting it fall around her face.  He watched as she knelt by the fireplace, stoking the dying embers gently, blowing puffs of air over the coals until they flickered to life.  It was then that he shivered, not realizing how cold he felt until he was bathed in the warmth of the fireplace.  He joined her by the fireside, his shoulder brushing against hers gently as he soaked in the warmth. 

 

Her hand reached out and grasped his, her fingers curling through his and squeezing.  She stood from her place by the fire, pulling him with her gently.  It took a moment before he realized where she was leading him.  He hesitated as he watched her push back the blankets and furs, exposing the sheets of her bed. He swallowed thickly, shaking his head.

 

“Arya, that’s your bed…” he protested weakly, watching as she rolled her eyes at him, giving his hand an insistent tug.

 

“Yes, its my bed, and I intend to get some sleep.  Are you coming or not?” She dared him to deny her, eyes fixed on his.  He sighed, shaking his head in defeat.  He would never be able to say no to her.

 

“As Milady commands,” he teased back, watching as a smile broke over her face.  She climbed into the bed, and he could only follow her.  He sunk into the soft feather bed, the mattress cradling his aching body in a way he’d never felt before.  Warmth enveloped him as she pulled the blankets and furs over their bodies, settling herself against his uninjured side.  He’d never thought that he’d feel this again. 

 

He closed his eyes as she rested her head against his shoulder, his own arm wrapping around her waist.  Even clothed, he still felt the warmth of her skin under his hands, reminding him that she really was here, and they were both alive.  He leaned down ever so slightly to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, resting his forehead against her damp hair.  A comfortable silence stretched between them as they laid there, their combined presence creating a shared warmth beneath the covers. 

 

“I killed the Night King,” Her words were so quiet he almost missed them, but they gave him a small start anyway.  A smile broke across his face as he chuckled into her dark brown hair.  Of course, it had been her.  Everyone had been so focused on Jon and Daenerys, they’d overlooked the deadliest warrior amongst them. 

 

“I wouldn’t have expected any less, to be honest,” he teased, reaching up with his other hand to touch her cheek gently. 

 

“The Night King should have known better than to threaten your family.”  She smiled up at him, shifting just enough so she could lean up and press her lips to his.  Here she was, savior of humanity, bringer of the dawn, princess of Winterfell, kissing her bull-headed bastard in the aftermath of battle.  She pulled away, giving him a smile before her visage was disrupted by a yawn forcing its way from her lips.  Watching that little display of weariness made Gendry yawn as well, holding Arya just a little closer to his chest.  

 

He closed his eyes, the soft sound of her breath reminding him that this was all real as he started to doze.  Soft snores soon filled the room as the two exhausted lovers were claimed by sleep.  There had been so little rest the night before, and their bodies were wearied by battle.  Now they slept at last as the sun began to rise over Winterfell, the bustle of the castle too far gone to reach them now.  Neither had slept this well in years.

 

 

 


	11. Family Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> She takes the time to meet up with Jon and Sansa in the aftermath of the battle. 
> 
> I've decided to completely ignore S8 E4 for the time being. I have my own happy ending in mind for these characters, one I don't think we're going to get from the show runners.

 

-  Arya  -

 

 

When she woke, the first thing she was aware of was the pain.  It felt as though every inch of her body had taken a beating from the Waif twice over.  The next thing she noticed was the warm body she was wrapped around, his chest rising and falling slowly and evenly as he slept.  She sat up carefully, looking down at his sleeping face.  More bruises had begun to blossom across his skin in the hours they had slept.  She had no doubt her face was similar.  She pulled out of his embrace slowly, careful not to wake him this time.  She would let him rest while she dealt with her family.

 

She pulled on her boots, wrapping a cloak around her shoulders before she stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind her.  She made her way down the stairs to the grand hall, but it was only filled with resting wounded now.  She peeked into the courtyard, watching as Jon directed the remaining soldiers, helping them haul bodies from the castle into the field beyond.  She didn’t find Sansa until she returned to the family solar.  The Lady of Winterfell was in her chambers, standing at the window, watching as the rebuilding of her home began again.

 

“Are you alright?” Sansa turned with a start, pressing her hand to her chest as she took in the form of her little sister.  The redhead could never get used to the way Arya could move silently now.  She had pressed the younger girl to tell her what had happened, but Arya had always skirted around the topic until she had discovered the faces and some of the truth had come out. Sansa’s gaze softened as she looked at Arya, the taller woman letting out a sigh.

 

“I’m fine… Bran said you killed the Night King.” Arya only nodded, taking a few steps to close the distance between them, wrapping her older sister in a hug.  Sansa wasn’t sure if Arya had ever hugged her first before.  Sansa pulled back, looking down at Arya, her eyes examining the younger woman.  Those weren’t the same clothes she’d worn into the battle.

 

“Where were you? We couldn’t find you afterwards.”  Arya shrugged, giving her sister a small smile. 

 

“I wasn’t ready to see anyone yet… and I needed to get the blood off of me,” she offered, curling her fingers through Sansa’s as the two women moved to sit on the grand bed that dominated the room.  Sansa squeezed Arya’s hand gently, a smile curling over her lips as she studied her little sister.

 

“Anyone except the blacksmith, you mean?” Sansa quipped back, enjoying the surprised expression that flashed across Arya’s face.  It was Sansa’s turn to be surprised when Arya’s cheeks flushed pink and she looked away, worrying at her lip with her teeth.  Never before had she seen Arya blush and worry like this over anyone, especially a man.

 

“I thought you might return to your room; I was going to have the servants bring you a bath.  Imagine my surprise when I open the door to find _you_ wrapped up in the arms of _a man_.  I thought you swore you’d never fall in love?” she taunted, a laugh falling from her lips as Arya swatted her in the shoulder half-heartedly. 

 

“You’re not going to tell Jon, are you?” Arya asked after a long pause, glancing over at the other woman.  Sansa’s eyes softened tenderly as she looked at her little sister.  She’d always read of tales of love and gallant knights sweeping pretty ladies off their feet.  She’d always dreamed of love, but love had never found its way to her, only pain.  Sansa shook her head, reaching out to squeeze Arya’s hand again.

 

“No, but you should, and soon.  I know he’s fond of the blacksmith, but perhaps less so if he finds the man sneaking out of your chambers in the middle of the night” she teased, enjoying Arya’s uncontrolled blush and the way her younger sister rolled her eyes in aggravation.  As if she’d let him try to leave her in the middle of the night.  The bull belonged to her now, and his place was at her side.  Arya stood, smiling at her Lady sister before she turned to go.

 

“Arya…” The brunette stopped at the doorframe, turning to look at her sister over her shoulder once more.

 

“Do you love him?” Arya swallowed thickly, nodding once more.  She watched as a sad smile flickered across Sansa’s face as the Lady of Winterfell looked away.

 

“Good, never let him go, no matter what anyone says,” Sansa said quietly, tears pricking at her blue eyes.  She’d never had anyone love her that way.  She could hardly stand to admit the pang of jealousy that had wrenched through her gut when she’d seen Arya curled up in the arms of the smith.  The way her head rested on his shoulder, his lips lightly touching her forehead as if he’d fallen asleep kissing her there.  She’d known it when she’d seen it, that was the kind of love the bards thought of when they spun their tales of love and devotion.  It was everything she’d ever wanted; how could she stand in the way of her sister finding it now?

 

Arya smiled sadly back at her sister, feeling the longing in the other woman’s words. “I won’t,” she murmured, closing the door behind her as she stepped back into the quiet hall.  She still hadn’t said the words to him yet, though she’d had no problem admitting to the feeling.  She made her way back towards the main hall, not having realized how long she must have slept.  The sun was starting to sink behind the castle walls, the days much shorter now that winter had come. 

 

When she stepped into the arch of the great hall, she was greeted by the sight of Jon sitting on a bench, glowering at his hands as Samwell Tarly dabbed at the wound on his face.  She stepped lightly over those who slept on the stone floor, picking her way through the wounded to where he sat.  She planted herself across from him, her gaze raking over him.  He looked much like she had earlier that morning, covered in blood, mostly others but some of his own, dirt marring his skin, tiredness etched onto his face. 

 

He lifted his head slowly, dark brown eyes trailing up from her boots to her face.  A smile crossed his tired face as he reached out a hand to grasp one of hers. 

 

“You killed the Night King.”  It seemed like that was all people could talk about, but Arya supposed it was only natural.  They’d fought so hard and lost so many.  So many had believed Jon was supposed to be the one to do it, even she had believed it until the red woman had convinced her otherwise.  She smiled at him fondly, shrugging her shoulders.

 

“Someone had to…” He laughed, squeezing her hand again. There was so much to tell him, about where she had been, about who she had become.  They finally had time now, there was no need to rush. Her story could wait until he’d known food and rest.  They sat there in silence, hand in hand as Samwell stitched the wound on Jon’s shoulder now.  She and Jon had never needed to exchange many words to reach an understanding between them.

 

The two of them lifted their heads as hurried footsteps approached them, the grimy form of Ser Davos coming into focus.  He was mostly unharmed, but his eyes were full of worry.

 

“Forgive me for interuptin’ My Lady, Jon, but I wanted to ask if you’d seen the smith, Gendry?  I lost track of him on the field…” his words trailed off, wringing his hands together worriedly.  Jon knew how fond the Onion Knight had grown of the blacksmith, and how much it must be hurting Ser Davos to not know where the younger man was.  After the death of his own son, Gendry had been the closest thing to a son he’d known in a long time.  Jon was about to answer when Arya beat him to it.

 

“He’s asleep in my chambers, Ser Davos, no need to worry over him.”  _she had that covered._ The Onion Knight’s brows raised so high; they might have disappeared into his hair had he not been going bald in his age.  A warm smile settled over his face, and some of the tension fell from his shoulders at the news that the young man still breathed.  Of course, he saw the shock and hints of anger on the face of the King in the North and wondered if perhaps it was too soon to confirm the lad’s safety. 

 

“I have no doubt he’ll be fine under your care, My Lady,” he said, bowing to the pair of them before turning to take his leave of them.   Clearly, they had things to discuss.  Arya watched the knight leave before turning her gaze back to her brother.  She could see the anger raising in his eyes as his mouth opened and closed as he tried to find the right words to scold her.

 

“Arya…”

 

“Don’t, Jon.  I don’t care that its not proper, no one is taking him from me,” she growled at him, surprising him with the ferocity in her eyes.  Jon liked the smith, they had spent good hours talking and drinking, but the idea of any man’s hands on his little sister made his jaw clench and his blood boil.  She gripped his hand tightly, jerking her head to the side where the Dragon Queen sat by the fire, tears still streaking down her pretty face as she gazed into the flames. 

 

“Would you let anyone keep you from her?” She challenged, fixing him with her steely gaze.  His shoulders sagged slightly, his mouth forming a straight hard line as he shook his head.  He had done everything for her, given up his crown and bent the knee, been willing to swear himself to her for the rest of his life.  He furrowed his brow as the meanings of Bran’s words in the Godswood finally struck him.  He’d spent hours wondering where she was, but if he’d just listened, he would have known the whole time.  Gendry was King Robert’s bastard; the last Stag.  _The She-wolf hunts for her Stag._   Jon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand before turning his gaze back to his fiery eyed little sister.

 

“Does he make you happy?” he asked her quietly, the hardness in her gaze softening.  A smile curled across her face as she nodded.  They had faced death, stared into the long night, and come out the other side.  He sat on that bench, wounded and battered, but _alive_ , all thanks to her.  Every living person in that castle owed her their lives.  If it made her happy, how could he deny this to her.

 

“If he ever hurts you…”

 

“If he ever hurts me, I’ll kill him myself,” she quipped back, a wry smile cracking over Jon’s face as she spoke.  Ever obstinate, ever the fighter.  Of them all, she was the most like a wolf.  She was fierce and wild.  She protected her pack.  She stood her ground in the face of certain death.   He knew there was nothing to worry about.  There was no punishment he could bring down on the blacksmith that would rival Arya’s fury if he ever dared break her heart. 

 

“Get some rest, brother.  We have stories to tell when the bodies are burned,” she said, giving his hand a final squeeze before she rose from her seat across from him.  She worked her way through the great hall to the kitchens.  The gnawing pain in her stomach that she thought was from an injury had turned out to be hunger.  She knew it when she stepped into the heat of the kitchen and the smell of roasting meat made her stomach snarl unhappily.  None of the kitchen staff stopped her as she unfolded a large napkin, plundering items from around the larder. 

 

A loaf of bread, a couple hunks of cheese, several chunks of salted pork, and a bloated wineskin wouldn’t be missed, not when they were feeding hundreds a day.  And anyways, allowances would be made for Arya Stark, the girl who had brought the dawn and ended the long night.  She felt the way the servants looked at her, eyes wide with wonder, but they said nothing.  Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of respect, she didn’t care.  It was nice not to be questioned though.  she carried her plunder through the halls back to her bedroom, cracking the door and slipping inside silently.  She set the food and wineskin down on the desk, her gaze returning to the sleeping form in her bed. 

 

He had shifted in his sleep, his arm reaching across the area where she had laid.  _Reaching for her._ The sight made her heart flutter slightly and she tore her eyes away from him to the dying embers of the fire.  A servant had restocked her firewood at some point while they slept, an act she was glad of.  She didn’t want to have to haul an armful of firewood up all those steps.  Despite her slumber, her limbs still ached and protested with each movement. 

 

She knelt by the fireplace again, feeding logs into the coals until the flames started to flicker over the dry wood.  The crackling of the fire must have woken him, she heard the shifting of the covers as he stirred.  The quiet creak of the floorboards as he climbed from the bed, the uneven cadence of his steps as he limped towards her.  She closed her eyes for a moment as his fingertips brushed against her bruised cheek gently, leaning ever so slightly into his touch.  She opened her eyes, looking at up at him before pushing herself up to standing.  Even bruised and bloodied, he was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen. 

 

“Go back to bed, I brought us supper.”

 

 "Yes, Milady."

 

 


	12. Of Days Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Gendry asks Arya about how she got her scars.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

The soft sounds of a crackling fireplace roused him from slumber.  There was no warmth pressed to his side anymore, and in a panic his eyes flew open.  For a second, fear pierced his heart, and his gaze searched for her frantically.  Part of him was still back there, swinging his hammer among the dead, terrified he’d never see her again. Somehow, he knew that night would always haunt his dreams.  When his eyes settled on the kneeling form of Arya Stark, that fear and panic melted away.  _They’d won._

 

He pushed the covers back, placing his bare feet on the cold wooden floor, taking slow steps towards her.  The wound on his thigh ached with every step, but it didn’t matter.  He just wanted to be close to her.  His heart welled in his chest as she leaned her cheek into his touch, smiling at her as she stood. A chuckle had rolled past his lips when she ordered him back to bed, shaking his head a little.

 

“Yes Milady,” he quipped back at her playfully before he turned back to the bed.  He climbed back in, the warmth still lingering under the covers as he leaned up against the wooden headboard.  He barely had time to raise his hands to catch the wineskin that she tossed at him, chuckling as she crawled into the bed with her parcel of food in her hands.  She laid the bundle in his lap, tucking herself close against his side before uncovering their meal.

 

He didn’t recall bread and cheese ever tasting so good, but the moment the food hit his stomach, he was ravenous.  They finished everything but one small hunk of bread, leaving only the hardest crust discarded on her side table.  They passed the wineskin between them, finishing most of that too as the last rays of the sun faded from view, leaving them in the fading light.  She sighed, settling her shoulder back against his chest as they sat quietly in the growing darkness.  He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to the side of her head gently.  Carefully, his fingers slid beneath the hem of her shirt, calloused fingertips brushing over the raised scars on her stomach. 

 

“What happened to you after the Brotherhood sold me to the red woman?” he asked, caressing slowly across her marred skin.  She sighed, shifting her body against his so she faced him.  The pained look on her face broke his heart.

 

“Are you sure you want to know? Its not a very nice story…” she said quietly, looking away from him.  He smiled, pulling her a little closer to him, kissing her forehead.

 

“I’m sure… I’ve faced the dead, remember?  You can’t scare me away” he insisted, his words drawing the faintest hint of a smile to her face.  It quickly disappeared as she started to tell her story though.  As they reclined in the darkness, he listened, his heart aching at her words.  She told him about how she had escaped the Brotherhood only to be captured by The Hound.  How they’d traveled and fought together, how he’d intended to take her to Riverrun to ransom her off to her mother and brother.  They’d reached Riverrun, too late to meet the King in the North by only a handful of hours.  By the time they had arrived, the Red Wedding had been complete.  They’d strung up Robb’s corpse, and Arya had added Walder Frey to her list of names.

 

Their next destination had been the Erie, but her aunt Lyssa had died just days before their arrival.  After that, Arya had left the Hound for dead in the wilds, after he had been bested in hand to hand combat by Brienne of Tarth.  She’d ridden to the coast, looking for an escape from the dangers of Westeros.  As far as she knew, her family was gone.  Her father beheaded, mother and brother slaughtered, Bran and Rickon murdered by Theon, Jon stuck at the wall and Sansa trapped in Kings Landing.  She had assumed by then that he’d been killed by the red woman as well.  With nothing left for her here but pain, she’d handed the coin Jaqen had given her to a Bravosi ship captain and taking his ship across the sea.

 

She had trained at the house of Black and White, the famous house of assassins that could change their faces as easily as other men changes their clothes.  She told him how she’d stolen a face to cross a name off her list, and the Many-Faced God had punished her for it, taking her eyes.  She told him about the year she was blind, how she’d had to learn to fight, to move, to do everything in the dark, by feel or smell.  She told him about her second chance, and her failure to serve the Many-Faced God once more. 

 

She told him about the Waif, about how her blade had torn through her stomach, leaving her full of holes and covered in slices.  He’d grit his teeth in anger at the idea, but she assured him that she’d found her vengeance in the end.  The Waif’s face had been the one to end up on the wall of faces, not hers.  The House of Black and White had let her go, she had never truly been able to be no one. 

 

He heard the tinge of pride in her voice when she talked about slaughtering the Freys.  They’d killed her family, so she had killed them.  Each and every one.  She’d stolen the face of their lord, bid them to drink, and then watched them all choke to death on their own blood.  She had been on her way to the capitol to kill Cersei when she had run into Hotpie at the Inn at the crossroads, and he’d told her that Jon had retaken the North.  That’s when her goal had shifted, and she’d turned her horse back north towards Winterfell. 

 

They had fallen into silence when she finished her story, his hand rubbing slowly up and down her side as they laid there. She looked up at him, uncertainty in her eyes, her hand curling into a fist against his chest. 

 

“So… Now you know everything.  Does it frighten you? What I’ve become?” she asked quietly.  He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss her tenderly.  She was ferocious and deadly and perfect.  Sometimes she did frighten him, but only with the skill she possessed, not with the cold façade she tried to always present to others.

 

“Well you have a tendency to throw knives pretty close to my head, but I wouldn’t say you frighten me” he teased her, giving her an exaggerated wince as she slapped his chest playfully, a smile cracking over her face.  Other people looked at her with concern and sometimes fear as she walked the halls of the castle, but he never had.  There had never been anything but warmth for her in his eyes. 

 

He had melted into her arms when she reached up to kiss him deeply.  For the first time since the dawn, the press of her mouth to his held a sense of urgency once more.  She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, pulling a groan from him as she did so.  He wrapped his other arm around her, twisting his torso as best as he could to pull her closer, deepening the kiss as he did. 

 

The breathy groan she sighed out against his lips made it so difficult to move slowly, but their injured bodies could take little strain.  He had just begun to slide his hand under her shirt and along her skin when there came a heavy pounding at the door.  He jumped back, knocking his head on the headboard, earning a dissatisfied growl from Arya. She did not like to be interrupted.

 

“Arya… You’re needed at the gates, quickly,” the voice was Jon’s, his breathing sounded labored as he spoke through the door.  She sighed, pulling herself out of Gendry’s arms much to his displeasure. 

 

“Let me get my boots on brother,” she called, tugging on her boots and wrapping her cloak around her shoulders.  Gendry climbed out of the bed as well, pulling on his boots.  Whatever it was, where ever she went, unless she told him not to, he would follow.  Her hair was still loose around her face, but Arya had already schooled her features into calm repose.  She strapped Needle to her waist, looking over at Gendry.  He didn’t have the same training as she.  It was clear by the flush on his cheeks and the love-bitten tinge to his lips, it was clear he’d just been properly kissed.  She liked that look on him.

 

When they were dressed, she threw open the door, facing an impatient Jon.  He looked at her, his gaze jumping from her face to Gendry, his eyes narrowing slightly.  He’d promised Arya that he wouldn’t protest, but that didn’t mean he had to like the idea of his friend sharing a bed with his little sister.

 

“Come on,” he said gruffly, turning away from them, grasping a torch from the wall as he made his way down the dark corridor.  He led them through the main courtyard, towards the front gates.  Soldiers stood inside the entrance, swords drawn, their breath the loudest sounds they dared make.  The unsullied shifted carefully, spears drawn at some threat just beyond the gate.  Something changed in Arya’s face as they drew closer, her steps increasing in pace as she pushed past her brother, almost running now.  When they reached the gate, she stepped forward past the soldiers, her gray eyes wide and brimming with tears. 

 

Gendry moved to follow her, but he was blocked by Jon’s hand firm on his shoulder.  He looked over at the other man, furrowing his brows, not understanding why he couldn’t follow her.  Jon shook his head, releasing Gendry’s shoulder and gesturing for him to look, but not speaking a word.  Gendry frowned, stepping to the side, moving to try to get a glimpse of what lay beyond the castle walls.

 

Arya knelt on the dirt; her silhouette illuminated in the moonlight.  Her breath misted in clouds as she stared down the golden gaze of a massive direwolf.  

 

“Nymeria?...”

 

 


	13. The She-wolves of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya/mixed
> 
> A girl reunites with her wolf

-  Arya  -

 

  
Arya didn’t like to be disturbed, but she’d dragged her weary body from the arms of her blacksmith at her brother’s request. She had seen the displeasure on his face at Gendry emerging from her chambers with her, but he was going to have to get used to that particular development. She had followed him without explanation through the corridors and out into the courtyard, his face set into a stern line as they moved through the darkness. Once the main gate came into view, and she saw all the soldiers and Unsullied staring down some enemy, concern rose in her chest. As she moved closer, that concern began to melt away, and a sensation that had been missing for many years began to creep its way back to her.

 

The icy wind brushed across her face, stealing the breath from her lips as she began to move towards the main gate. Her steps increased in pace, though she didn’t understand why, until she was nearly running. Her muscles were too tired to sprint, but she moved as quickly as she could. She had to. Something was waiting for her beyond that gate, something that called to her heart. When she rounded the corner, her breath caught in her throat at the sight before her. She wasn’t hurried anymore. There was no need to run or rush. She walked forward slowly, past the main gates sinking to her knees a few steps away from the massive direwolf.

 

“Nymeria?...” her voice trembled as she faced off against the massive creature. She hadn’t even realized the tears that had sprung unbidden to her eyes until they were spilling down her cheeks. It had been so many years since she’d seen her direwolf, though she could hardly lay claim to Nymeria now, not after she had forced the wolf to flee when she had just been a girl. Their bond had never truly been severed though, she’d had wolf dreams for years, and now she understood all those dreams had been flashes of Nymeria’s life in the Riverlands after Arya had let her go.

 

Trembling, she extended her hand towards the wolf, unable to stifle her emotions as the she-wolf took a few steps towards her. She knew Nymeria could change her mind at any moment, lunge forward and tear her to pieces if she so choose, but something had brought her here.

 

Nymeria leaned in, giving Arya’s fingers an experimental sniff as she regarded the girl warily. The wolf had been chasing a scent, and the girl was thick with it, though other scents were muddled in as well, especially one male one. Her girl had never had time for males before, how could the she-wolf be certain this was the girl she had searched for?

 

Nymeria stepped closer, sniffing along Arya’s arm, her breath leaving warm puffs along the girl’s skin. She rubbed her nose into the girl’s hair, golden eyes closing as she drew in the scent of the human. This was the one she had been looking for, her scent was still very much the same after so many years apart. A low whine drew itself from Nymeria’s throat as she nuzzled her nose against the cheek of her girl. She smelled of salt and pain, much like she had before chucking rocks at Nymeria as she fled into the forest. There were no rocks this time though. Her girl didn’t need to smell like salt any more. There was salt all over her face, and Nymeria knew best how to get rid of it.

 

Laughter rang across the courtyard, the sound tugging at Jon’s heart as he watched the massive direwolf go from hulking beast to playful pup in an instant. It had been years since he’d heard his sister laugh that way. That tongue licked streaks across Arya’s face as her arms wrapped around the wolf’s massive neck. Nymeria’s tail wagged excitedly as she pressed closer to the girl, pushing Arya off balance and knocking her back onto her rear. Arya didn’t mind, her heart feeling lighter now than it had in years. This was a feeling she hadn’t even realized she had been missing. Arya curled her fingers into her wolf’s pelt, pressing her face into the soft fur of her neck. Nymeria moved a bit closer, sitting herself down between Arya’s knees, letting out another whine as she let her girl hug her, resting her massive head against Arya’s back.

 

Now that it was clear the wolf wouldn’t be tearing her to shreds, the guards sheathed their weapons and returned to their posts. It didn’t stop them from looking at this new wolf with the same wariness they felt towards Ghost. Whatever the bond the Starks had with their wolves, they were still wild animals to the rest of the castle. Arya still had her face buried in the wolf’s fur when she felt Nymeria tense and a low growl rumbled through her wolf’s chest. She pulled back, looking over her shoulder to see that Jon had closed some of the distance between them, Nymeria’s golden gaze fixed on him, her hackles raised slightly. Arya’s heart swelled with emotion, though she reached up to scratch behind Nymeria’s ear gently. Ever her protector, even though she didn’t need anyone else’s protection anymore.

 

“You remember Jon, don’t you? He’s our brother, not a chew toy,” she said quietly, pulling away from the she-wolf carefully. She stood, fondling Nymeria’s ears affectionately before walking over to Jon, smiling at him before pulling him into a hug. Jon wasn’t expecting this in the least, but he hugged Arya back tightly before she pulled away. He was the only other Stark who hadn’t lost their wolf, and the reunion he’d given her by not telling her the reason for this nighttime excursion was precious. Nymeria tilted her head to the side as she watched her girl hug the male. This wasn’t the one that her girl’s scent mingled with, but he still smelled like pack. Nymeria gave him a cursory sniff, deciding that he was acceptable.

 

Her golden eyes found the form of another male, several paces away, the scent of fear rolling off him as he stood still in the darkness. Fear and Arya. The direwolf crossed the courtyard in a few short paces, circling the male that was frozen to the spot. She gave him a thorough sniff, assessing him as she circled. He smelled like fear, hints of blood and sweat lingering on his skin, but mostly he smelled like her girl. His was the same smell she had found on her girl just moments before. In Nymeria’s mind, there was only one reason for their scents to be so closely mingled. It meant this male was pack too. The she-wolf nudged her nose into the male’s hand, wanting him to scratch her behind the ears too. She’d forgot how nice it was to have humans scratch behind her ears.

 

Arya couldn’t help a giggle that slipped past her lips as she watched the massive wolf circle Gendry, his blue eyes wide as dinner plates with fear. He didn’t dare move a muscle as Nymeria assessed him, but it was clear when she pressed her muzzle up into his hand that she had accepted him. The wolves weren’t quick to accept those outside the family, but he was her family now. He still looked petrified, like he was expecting the she-wolf to change her mind and take a chunk out of him.

 

“She won't bite… unless you keep ignoring her of course. She-wolves don’t like to be denied” she teased, walking over to Gendry with a mischievous smile on her face. She reached out, taking his hand and placing it flat on the top of Nymeria’s head. She could feel him trembling, but he still gave the direwolf’s head a few hesitant strokes before, reaching back to scratch behind one pointed ear. He breathed a sigh of relief when the wolf leaned into his touch, her tail resuming its happy wag as they stood there in the darkness.

 

Jon watched from his place a few feet away, surveying the scene before him. He’d been furious when Arya had announced that she’d taken the blacksmith to her bed, but watching his little sister stand with him now, he felt some of that anger dissipating. He’d always known Gendry was a good man, but as they stood in the night with Nymeria rubbing herself up against Gendry’s side like a pup, he couldn’t deny it any longer. If there had been ill intent in the smith, Nymeria would never have let him touch her. Gendry still looked like he was nearly about to faint, but the look on Arya’s face told volumes. There was joy in her eyes that he hadn’t seen in years, joy that she held only for the blacksmith. She was with _her_ pack now, the three of them. The Starks always stuck together, but it seemed Arya was determined to forge her own family too.

 

Arya only tore her gaze away from Nymeria fawning over her blacksmith when Jon cleared his throat. She turned to look at him, examining the resigned look on his face. She knew he still wasn’t pleased with her choice, but at least he didn’t look angry.

 

“I’ll leave the three of you to get some rest, but I want to talk to you in the morning,” he said, fixing Arya with a firm gaze. They still had plenty to discuss about the years they’d spent apart, but the hour was growing late, and they were all still tired. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet it had been less than a day since they’d fought against the army of the dead. They all needed to rest. Arya reached out to thread her fingers through Gendry’s before tugging him gently back towards the castle. She saw the way Jon looked at their intertwined fingers, but she didn’t care how anyone looked at her anymore. She’d killed the Night King and brought the dawn. She would do as she pleased.

 

 

 


	14. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Arya takes him back to her bed

-  Gendry  -

 

 

Nothing could have prepared him for the moment when Nymeria turned her golden eyes to him.  He’d spent some time around Ghost, but he’d always given the other direwolf plenty of personal space, not daring to touch him without express permission from Jon. And from Ghost.  He thought he’d known what it was like to stand before a direwolf, but Nymeria was something else.  Ghost had been the small one, the runt of the litter, spending years fighting beyond the wall.  He was tough and a fighter, and he dwarfed normal wolves.  Nymeria, however, had spent her years in the Riverlands, leading a pack of nearly twenty, feasting on fresh kills every night.  She stood at least four inches taller than Ghost, a lifetime of good hunting and pack protection having given her the advantage. 

 

He felt like a startled deer, frozen in place as the massive wolf crossed the yard in just a few steps.  Suddenly her nose was pressed against his shirt, her breath rippling the fabric as she circled and sniffed him.  He tipped his head up, closing his eyes for one moment, opening them and half wishing that the direwolf had somehow vanished.  He looked back down, and once again Nymeria was staring at him, standing just to the side of him.  He could almost swear his heart stopped when she leaned in and pushed her muzzle up into his hand.  He waited for a bite that never came, his hand trembling as his fingers brushed the fur on her nose 

 

Suddenly Arya was at his side, her hand grasping his, and _pulling it closer to the direwolf._   He almost pulled back, until she pressed his hand flat against the top of Nymeria’s head. He glanced at Arya nervously, sliding his hand back towards her ears slowly. Twice more, he stroked her head lightly, taking a deep breath before he slid his hand further back, curling his fingers behind one of her ears.  When the she-wolf tilted her head into his hand, he let out the breath he realized he had been holding.  He kept scratching gently, a nervous smile crossing his face as the great direwolf leaned her shoulder against his leg, turning her head to direct the scratches to her other ear.  Another she-wolf that had him wrapped around her will already.

 

He hadn’t realized that he was still tired and now growing increasingly cold until Arya began to lead him back into the castle, Nymeria at their heels. The great direwolf breezed past them once they were inside the corridor, trotting along the stone hallway in front of them.  She shoved the wooden door to Arya’s room open with her head, walking in and immediately making herself comfortable next to the fireplace.  It had been many years since Nymeria had the chance to relax near a warm fire, and she had run quite a long way to find her girl. 

 

Arya chuckled softly at the sight of the great direwolf stretched out on the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the flames.  She’d used to do the same thing on cold nights as a pup, until Arya started to shiver, and then she would join her on the bed to provide some added warmth.  Nymeria could rest easy by the fire, Gendry would keep her warm now.  She released Gendry’s hand, closing the door before turning to stoke the fire.  She needed to build it up again if they wanted it to last most of the night.  Gendry took an uneven step towards the pile of firewood, but Arya placed a hand on his chest.

 

“I can get the fire, you get off your leg” she ordered, pushing him in the direction of the bed gently.  A grin spread across his face and he stumbled back dramatically, pretending to collapse into the bed as though she had shoved him with all her strength.  That earned a soft laugh from her, her eyes crinkling slightly in the corners.  God’s he’d do anything to see her laugh. He didn’t mind following her command this time, the wound in his leg had started to ache after standing so long out in the cold, and he was glad to be off it.  He kicked off his boots before climbing into the bed, leaning back against the headboard, half sitting up as he watched her tend to the fire.

 

She fed the flames, building up the fire to warm them for the night.  He watched as she reached out to stroke the bridge of Nymeria’s nose gently.  The wolf didn’t stir, having dozed off in the warmth of the fire.  She stood and moved back towards him, climbing onto the bed. Arya sat at the foot of the bed; her feet tucked up under her knees as she watched the direwolf doze. 

 

“I never thought I’d see her again.  I sent her running from the king’s soldiers in the Riverlands all those years ago.  She must have caught my scent from when I was at the twins and followed it all the way here,” she said quietly, watching as one brown tipped ear twitched, her toes curling, tail twitching as Nymeria began to dream.

 

"I’m a little surprised she took to me so quickly,” he said, gazing across the room to where the brown and white direwolf lounged by the fireplace.  He frowned with confusion when Arya chuckled, a real smile cracking over her face.

 

“Of course she took to you… _you_ smell like _me_.” She laughed, shaking her head at him as though it had been obvious.  She turned from her seat at the foot of the bed, crawling towards him with a look on her face that made his mouth grow dry and his trousers suddenly tight.  She moved towards him much like a wolf, climbing into his lap, her hips straddling his. 

 

“You’re in _my_ home, in _my_ bed, having slept all day next to _me_.  Of course you smell like me to a wolf.”  The words came out low and gravely, a fierce possessiveness in her voice. Her gray eyes had gone dark and hungry, and he let out a groan as she kissed him passionately.  Her hands slid from his chest up his neck to cup his face in her palms.  She pulled back from the kiss.  Now her own lips were just as swollen as his had been earlier, and a similar flush adorned her cheeks. 

 

She leaned back, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it up, tugging the garment off and tossing it across the room to her chair. Their time had been limited the night before.  The world had been ending.  Now they had plenty of time.  She ran her hands over his chest, her nails trailing over his skin, making him shudder under her touch.  She seemed to be content to torture him forever as she leaned down to press the lightest kiss to his lips before pulling back.  Then suddenly her mouth was pressed to his jaw, moving over his stubble and towards his neck. 

 

He moaned as she kissed down his neck, the way she scraped her teeth over the artery in his neck making him shudder once more.  His hands gripped her hips, fingers slowly sliding up under her shirt as she explored him with her lips and fingers.  Every time she moved, she ground her hips against his in an unfair display of friction.   He was achingly hard and straining in his trousers, his eyes closing as he tried to control his breathing while she peppered kisses across the top of his chest.  He failed.

 

She pulled back from her assault on his senses, looking down at him with desire written clearly across her face.  She pulled off her own shirt, letting the fabric fall unneeded to the floor.  Just some days before she had shied away at her own reflection in the mirror, but Gendry had already seen her scars, and he called her beautiful anyway.  She didn’t have to hide from him.  He sucked in a sharp breath when her fingers began to undo the laces of his trousers, moving his hands to tug his pants down when she began tugging on them impatiently.  Somehow, she’d managed to strip him naked while he was already laying down, and she still had her pants on. 

 

He ran his hands from her scarred sides down to the ties of her breeches, unlacing them the way she had done his.  Quick as a flash, she rolled out of his lap onto the bed beside him, wiggling her way out of her pants, kicking them away to lay discarded on the floor at the foot of the bed.  She pulled back the blankets, climbing back on top of him, draping the covers around her waist.  She leaned down, pressing their naked bodies together, her nails scraping his chest lightly as she kissed him deeply again.  His own hands roamed over her back and shoulders, down to the small of her back and along her thighs.  They had time.  He had time to run his hands over her skin and learn the way it felt under his touch. 

 

He hadn’t been quite prepared when her hand had gripped him firmly, pressing his tip to her entrance.  She was already wet, just as she had been the night before.  They both groaned as she sunk down on him, her breath growing labored against his lips.  His hips jerked involuntarily, and pain shot through his wounded leg.  They needed to go slow, they’d both barely begun to heal from the battle before. 

 

She began to roll her hips against his slowly, shifting her weight in circles.  His hands settled at the curve of her hips as she sat up, placing her hands firmly on his chest.  The circles slowly sped up, and if she shifted her hips just so, she could rise and sink back down on him at the same time.  Her chest heaved with exertion as moans tumbled from her lips.  He was lost in the sight of her, illuminated in the flickering glow of the fireplace, her head tipped back, lips parted slightly as she groaned in pleasure.  _The most beautiful thing in the world._

 

Again, he could feel his end beginning to approach, his grip tightening on her hips ever so slightly.  He wanted her to peak before him again, like the night before.  He slid one hand from her hips forward to stroke his thumb over her clit.  She made a strangled noise when his fingers made contact with her sex, pitching forward towards him, her body shuddering with the added sensation. 

 

He half expected her to slow, but after a brief and breathy kiss, she pulled back and resumed her movements, more force behind her actions than before.  He watched as she rode him, her eyes closing and her brows furrowing in a look half of pain, half of pleasure.  One more swipe of his thumb, and he felt her whole body clench around him, her thighs tightening around his hips, the heat of her core gripping his cock.  She cried out his name, her nails digging into his chest, one or two starting to draw a hint of blood as she trembled above him, her body wracked by her orgasm. 

 

He pulled his fingers away from her swollen clit, lifting her hips away from his sharply, spilling his seed between them again.  She groaned, an almost pained sound at the sudden loss of contact, but she understood.  She’d hardly given any thought to children, except that she didn’t want to have any.  He did them both a favor and kept her from having to ask the Maester for Moon Tea. She leaned down to kiss him, her fingers trembling as she held onto him, trying to steady herself in the aftermath. 

 

Gendry’s chest ached in a wonderful way when she laid her body down against his, nuzzling her face into his neck as they both panted in the darkness.  He wrapped his arms around her, feeling her shudder slightly as he began to trail the tips of his fingers up and down her spine.  They lay there in the darkness for some time, until their breathing had steadied and the sweat had begin to cool on their skin.  Arya sat up slightly, though she was loathe to leave the arms of her blacksmith again.  She used the napkin that had held their supper to wipe the cum from their bodies, discarding it to the chair the way she had done with his shirt.  She didn’t move to pull away, instead she tugged the blankets up and over them, pressing herself back down against his chest. 

 

She still lay on top of him, her legs straddling his waist, but she was light and Gendry didn’t mind being used as a pillow.  He wrapped her in his arms once again, kissing her forehead as she made herself comfortable on top of him.  She nuzzled her face against his neck, the feeling of her warm breath against his skin reminding him that this was all real.  He could feel the hands of sleep tugging at his eyes, and as his blue orbs slid shut and sleep closed in, his heart still raced as he heard one final, possessive word from his she-wolf, whispered into the dark.

 

“Mine…”


	15. Ancient Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> Breakfast in bed is a wonderful thing

-  Arya  -

 

Sometime in the night, Nymeria had decided that her place was on the bed with her girl.  It was a large bed, but a fully grown direwolf took up quite a lot of space.  When Arya woke, she was sandwiched between two warm bodies, Nymeria against her back, Gendry to her front.  There was no way she could wiggle out of this one without waking one or both of them.  She let out a resigned sigh, tilting her gaze up to study the sleeping face of her blacksmith.  It had been a couple days since he’d shaved, and a small beard had started to grow on his chin.  She’d never thought of him with a beard, since he’d kept it so short before, but she could imagine it.  Maybe she’d ask him to grow it out, just so she could see. 

 

She was about to settle back down against his chest again when a quiet knock came at the door.  Nymeria sat up instantly, ears perked towards the sound, Arya giving a small smirk.  She should have known the wolf would already be awake.  She rolled over, giving the wolf a gentle push so she could get enough space to sit up.  Nymeria jumped off the bed, stretching her legs and giving a yawn.

 

“Just a moment” Arya called, climbing out of her bed, hearing a soft groan as her movements woke Gendry.  She pulled on her discarded trousers from the night before, tugging a shirt on over her head before answering the door.  One of the serving girls stood at the entrance, a tray of food in her hands.  It must have come from Sansa, since there were two plates on the tray.  A small smile crossed her face and she stepped aside to let the servant in.  She heard the soft gasp from the girl as she saw the great direwolf, a wry smirk crossing her face as the girl gave the wolf a very wide berth as she moved to place the tray on the desk. The girl bowed low before rushing from the room, closing the door behind her. 

 

She walked to the desk, picking a slice of bacon from one of the plates, pulling off a piece before popping the rest in her mouth, offering the morsel to Nymeria.  The she-wolf accepted the treat gladly.  She looked over to the bed where Gendry seemed to be trying to resist waking up, though it was a battle he was losing.  He’d draped his arm over his eyes to try to block out the light, but she could tell by the rhythm of his breathing that he was properly awake.  She walked over, lifting his arm even as he grumbled in protest, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

 

“Breakfast is here, and I think if you don’t claim your bacon, Nymeria might eat it,” she whispered teasingly, smiling down at his sleepy face as he blinked up at her.  He nodded, yawning and sitting up slowly, wincing as the wound to his side tugged slightly with the movement.  She picked up his plate, setting it on his lap as he leaned up against the headboard.  She grabbed her own and climbed back into the bed, sitting on top of the covers beside him, leaning her shoulder against his gently. 

 

“At least we know Sansa approves, but I have a feeling my talk with Jon today will not be an easy one,” she mused, poking at her toast.  She had promised to tell him everything after the battle was won.  Part of her had not believed this day would come, otherwise perhaps she wouldn’t have made such promises.  There was so much to tell, and she knew Jon would have questions, particularly about Gendry. His brows raised in surprise as he turned to look at Arya, swallowing the hunk of meat he had been chewing.

 

“Lady Sansa knows?” he asked, a panicked look crossing his face, though his worry was dispelled when Arya chuckled, then blushed. 

 

“She found us yesterday, in the morning after we’d fallen asleep.  Teased me about how I’d always claimed I’d never fall in love,” she said, taking a bite of her toast, looking at Nymeria’s begging face as she chewed.  She realized that Gendry had gone stock still beside her, and she turned to look at him.  The expression on his face surprised her, a mixture of shock, awe, and adoration.

 

“You love me?” he asked breathlessly, and Arya felt her face burn hot at his words.  She’d acknowledged the feeling that had been growing in her heart for so many years, but she hadn’t said those words to him yet.  She turned her body to face him, setting her plate to the side so she could lean up to kiss him tenderly, reaching up to cup his cheek.

 

“Of course I do, you stupid bull,” she murmured, though she didn’t mean the insult.  She just wasn’t sure how to deal with all these feelings without some coping mechanism and calling him a stupid bull had always worked when they were children.  He smiled against her lips wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss. He pulled back, stroking her hair gently out of her face. No one had ever looked at her the way he did, and it made her heart flutter and her stomach turn flips.  She’d always been the misfit, the tomboy, the one who didn’t fit in.  He was the only one who had ever looked at her and loved her exactly the way she was.

 

“I love you… I am yours and you are mine,” she said, kissing him again more deeply this time.  She knew what those words meant, they were the old words that were to be spoken at the base of a weirwood tree as two lovers joined forever in marriage.  She never wanted to be somebody’s wife, a lady confined to a castle, having to spend her days sewing and running a household. That had never been her.  She didn’t care if they never married, but when she imagined it, he was the only one she would accept standing across from her in the Godswood if it came to it. When the kiss finally broke, Arya was surprised to see Gendry’s blue eyes shining with unshed tears.  She’d never thought those words would have that kind of effect on the man, but his lip trembled slightly before he pulled her back in for another kiss.  He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes closed as he let out a deep sigh.

 

“I love you too,” he whispered, as though he’d scare her away if he said the words too loud.  He pulled back, reaching up to scrub at his eyes to keep the tears from falling, and she watched him swallow past the knot of emotion in his throat.  It had been years since anyone had loved him.  His mother had died when he was just a boy, his master had treated him kindly, but he had only been his apprentice.  Love was something he’d been missing all his life, especially after he’d made the poor choice to remain with the brotherhood.  Now the idea of being loved by Arya Stark had overwhelmed him. She sighed and bumped her shoulder against his playfully, reaching out to taking one of his hands in her own, lifting it to her lips to kiss his knuckles.

 

“Come on, you silly bull… The day doesn’t stop just because you turned to mush when a girl says she loves you,” she teased, picking up her toast to continue eating her breakfast.  A smile cracked over his face and he let out a low chuckle, squeezing her hand before continuing to eat his meal.  They finished in silence, fingers twined as they ate, Nymeria giving them eyes from the foot of the bed, begging for scraps.  Arya didn’t want to leave this tiny pocket of calm, sitting with her blacksmith and her wolf in the quiet of her room.  The whole world waited outside her door, and it was about time she got up to face it. 

 

She sighed, uncurling her fingers from Gendry’s, climbing out of the bed, carrying their plates over to her desk, leaving them on the tray.  Some servant would come by later to take the plates and bring up more firewood.  She gathered his scattered clothing from around the room, tossing them to him.  She liked the sight of him bare in her bed, but she had a feeling her siblings would object if he turned up in the great hall in such a state. 

 

She pulled on a leather tunic over her shirt, tying her belt around her waist once more, unable to keep here eyes from wandering over to Gendry as he dressed.  She had to speak to Jon, and many others likely wanted to probe her with questions.  They’d managed to steal away from the world for a whole day, her siblings probably demanding she not be disturbed after what she’d done out of respect.  Now she would have to face the music.

 

“Where will you go?” she asked, his blue eyes flicking up to meet hers.  He shrugged as he sat down in the chair to pull on his boots, lacing them up.

 

“Probably the forge… there’s still another war to fight, men to arm, and I can help out with the repairs a bit.”  He said, standing and stretching.  They both looked a rough sight, bruises marring their skin, but they were alive and breathing, and that’s what mattered.  She smiled at him, pulling her cloak around her shoulders before taking a few steps over and leaning up to kiss him.  She would never grow tired of kissing him.

 

“I’ll come find you there later then.  I always did enjoy watching you work,” she teased, raising a brow at him suggestively.  With a few quick steps and the flick of her cloak, she had opened the door and stepped out into the hall, Nymeria falling in step at her side with ease.  It had been many years since there had been another direwolf in the castle, and while the servants and guards knew Ghost, the sight of Nymeria shocked them.  Most of the men who had served in this castle when she had been a girl were long gone, there were few left to remember that once all the Stark children had been paired with a wolf. 

 

She wasn’t prepared for the hush that fell over the room when she stepped into the great hall.  The wounded had been moved to other rooms for healing, and the hall was filled with men and women breaking their fast.  They all stared in silence at the bringer of the dawn and her wolf.  Suddenly Arya felt very small for the first time in many years, and she reached out to stroke Nymeria’s scruff gently, the presence of the wolf bolstering her faltering confidence.  She walked around the edge of the hall to where Sansa was sitting at the high table, taking breakfast with Tyrion.  The half man raised his brows at the new direwolf, but he didn’t speak.  The look on Sansa’s face was a mixture of joy and shock.

 

“Arya, is that…?”

 

“Nymeria.  She found her way home last night, nearly scared the guards half to death,” she said, smiling at her sister.  Sansa smiled, pulling off her gloves and extending her hand towards the direwolf.  The she-wolf snuffled the redheads fingers experimentally, giving them a tentative lick.  This new girl was familiar too.  Part of the pack.  Sansa reached up to gentle fondle the wolf behind the ears, a sad smile crossing her face.  It had been so long since she’d lost Lady, but the wolves of the north were returning to Winterfell, and all was right in the world for small moment.

 

“I’m looking for Jon, have you seen him?” Arya asked, warmth blooming in her chest as she watched Sansa lovingly pet her direwolf.  The way they’d lost Lady had been so unfair, but it had been many years since Sansa had held any grudge against Arya for that night.  It had been the queen who was unfair, and now with Nymeria home, Sansa couldn’t find any anger in her heart.

 

“He said he was going to the Godswood, he did always love to brood there,” Sansa said, giving Nymeria an affectionate scratch under the chin before turning her gaze back to Arya.  The younger Stark nodded, giving her redheaded sister a smile before she turned to leave the hall, the great direwolf following at her side as she left.  As soon as her back was in the archway, she heard the whispers that echoed through the room. 

 

_Bringer of the Dawn_

_Azor Ahai_

_She-wolf of Winterfell_

 

She let them whisper and spread rumors, she had better things to discuss with her favorite brother in the Godswood.   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that my chapters are getting progressively fluffier, I just can't help myself with this pair. I find myself starting a chapter with a certain ending in mind, and suddenly I have 2k words of unrelated content and a good segue into the scene I intended to write. We've had our feels and fluff, and soon these chapters will start addressing the next challenge the Starks need to face; the Great War. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your comments, every time I get a new one it refuels my muse and the words just start coming again. I'm so deeply touched by all the wonderful comments you've all left for me, some of the compliments have made me absolutely giddy. I sometimes doubt that I've found the right words, but your wonderful feedback has helped lift my confidence and keeps me pushing onward. 
> 
> Thank you!


	16. No One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> This chapter is incredibly dialog heavy, apologies in advance.

-  Arya  -

 

 

Sansa was right about finding Jon in the Godswood.  She had been right about quite a lot lately. Arya was finding herself pulling closer to her sister, finally finding common ground as adults after such a strained relationship as children.  Nymeria followed at her side as they walked quietly through the snow.  A few inches had fallen in the night, just enough to blanket the ground and hide the bloodstains that had marred the snow the day before. A vicious snarl tore from Nymeria’s throat, Arya’s eyes widening in surprise as she glanced to her direwolf. 

 

Nymeria stood with her hackles raised, golden gaze fixed on the white furred form of the other direwolf who stood at Jon’s side.  Ghost and Jon both turned, Ghost assuming quite a similar stance to Nymeria, baring his teeth at the she-wolf.  Arya’s gaze jumped to Jon’s face, and the look she found there was similar.  Concern, and just a hint of panic that their direwolves were about to tear each other’s throats out protecting their charges.  Arya reached down, stroking along Nymeria’s shoulders, pushing down her raised hackles gently.

 

“Nymeria, stay.” She commanded, taking a few steps to the side away from her direwolf.  Nymeria didn’t move a muscle, her eyes still trained on the white wolf.  Arya walked across the Godswood towards Jon and Ghost, the albino direwolf tilting his head as the younger Stark girl approached him.  She had always been pack, but he didn’t recognize the wolf that stood beside her, and he needed to protect Jon.

 

Carefully, she extended her fingers towards Ghost so he could smell.  He growled softly but did lean in to sniff at her fingers.  It took a long moment, but after the scent filled his nose, it began to tickle at a memory long forgotten.  Of chasing and rolling in the grass, of the wet noses of his siblings, of collapsing into a heap and sleeping by the fireplace in the great hall.  His hackles lowered and he hid his teeth.  There was no need to bare them anymore.  Arya turned, watching with bated breath as Ghost brushed past her, taking a few steps to cross the Godswood, stopping a few paces from a still snarling Nymeria. 

 

She felt Jon start to move, but threw out her arm to block him, her gray eyes meeting his brown.  She shook her head, fixing her gaze back on the wolves.  It was not their place to intervene.  Ghost let out a soft whine, lowering his head submissively as he took a step towards his sister.  Nymeria’s snarl faltered as she sniffed at the air, taking in the other wolf’s scent.  He smelled like the man who was also pack.  He smelled like a smell she had forgotten.  She stopped baring her teeth, though her hackles remained raised as she took another step closer. 

 

It took a moment, but eventually the scent clicked in her mind.  Her tail went from rigid to wagging, her ears pressing back against her head as she stepped closer to her littermate, letting out a whine as she rubbed her nose on his scruff.  Ghost let out a similar sound, his tail beginning to wag as well.  He licked under her jaw, rubbing his face against her, their scents mingling for the first time in many years.  Nymeria was pleased.  She’d left behind one pack near the River, but her pack grew larger by the day now that she had returned to the north. 

 

The she-wolf leaned in, nipping playfully at Ghosts intact ear, stepping back and crouching down in a play bow.  Her paws spanked the snow, her jaws opening so her pink tongue could hang from her mouth as she panted with excitement.  Ghost let out a playful yip, both their tails wagging as he dropped into a play bow as well, practically wiggling with joy.  They stayed like that for several seconds, nose to nose, before Ghost stood abruptly and took off running through the snow, Nymeria getting up and giving chase. 

 

She was faster, and it didn’t take too much effort for her to catch up with her white furred little brother, pouncing on him and rolling with him in the snow.  They snarled and growled, but it was all play as they tumbled in the snow, tails wagging furiously. Arya could barely tear her gaze away from the pair as they played, a smile settling over her lips.  She’d hardly even thought about Ghost, it was a stroke of luck that the reunion of the two wolves had gone somewhat smoothly, despite the rocky start.

 

Arya crossed the snowy clearing to stand beside Jon, his step falling in beside hers.  They walked casually through the Godswood.  They didn’t rush.  They’d had food and rest, but they were both still recovering from battle.  It was Jon who broke the silence.

 

“You promised me we’d talk,” he said, glancing at her as they walked, snow crunching under his boots.  She didn’t seem to make any noise when she stepped.  She looked back over at him, her mouth settling into a firm line as she raised a dark brow at him.

 

“And I’m here to do that… are you ready to hear this?  Remember, its not a very nice story.” Her face was cool and impassive, not giving away the swirling mess of emotions she had inside. She’d learned to school the emotion from her eyes, the mask of No One slipping out from the shadows as the memories of the past tugged at her heart.

 

“I need to know” There was a long pause between them before Arya let out a soft sigh, fixing her gaze ahead as she spoke. 

 

“When they killed father, I was taken by Yoren from kings landing, disguised as a boy, traveling with a group of boys and bandits and prisoners destined for the wall. He was supposed to take me back to Winterfell.”

 

“You didn’t make it.”  It wasn’t a question.

 

“We were attacked by Lannister soldiers.  They killed one of my friends with Needle after it was stolen from me. We were kept at Haarrenhal, Hotpie, Gendry, and me, first as prisoners, then made to work serving Lord Tywin.”  She glanced at him, his brows raising sharply as he looked back at her.

 

“Tywin Lannister?”

 

“I was his cupbearer, he saw immediately that I was a girl and not a boy, and I served in the castle. He made Gendry be his smith, arming the Lannister forces. When the Lannister’s had attacked Yoren’s caravan, I helped free three prisoners from a cage.  One of them posed as a Lannister soldier and told him I had saved his life.  I had saved him and two others, I had stolen three names from the God of Death, and he would give me three names to repay the debt to his god.” Jon couldn’t read the expression on Arya’s face in that moment. It was cool and stony, but there was a dark flash of hunger in her gaze as she worked through the memory.

 

“Three names, of…” He trailed off, not sure he wanted to know the answer to his question.

 

“Of people he would kill, if I named them.” She said it as though it were the simplest thing, the casual dispensing of death.

 

“And did he?”

 

“Yes.  He helped us escape Haarenhal, and offered to take me back to Braavos to train me, but I was still trying to get back to Robb and mother.  He gave me an iron coin and told me to give it to any man from Braavos, and speak the words “valar morghulis,” and they would take me across the sea.  Then he changed his face and disappeared as someone else.” Jon furrowed his brows at this. He’d heard stories of the Faceless Men, deadly assassins.

 

“Did you go?” She ignored his question and continued.

 

“I traveled through the Riverlands with Gendry and Hotpie for a few months.  We lived in the forests and slept in the dirt and stole scraps of food when we could.  Gendry was the only one who’d figured out I was a girl at first, and the only one who knew I was a Stark.  Always used to call me ‘Milady’ to make me mad.” The hint of anger had faded from her face, and a flash of warmth crossed over her eyes as she talked about him.

 

“You’ve known him for a while then, that’s why…” He didn’t want to think about the two of them together.  She was a woman of eight and ten now, but he still felt fiercely protective of her. 

 

“He was my best friend for almost three years, Jon.  He was my only family when there was no one else.  Until the brotherhood captured us.”  Her eyes turned dark and angry, a scowl settling over her face.

 

“They captured us and the Hound.  He stood trial for the murder of the butcher’s boy he killed on the Kings Road.  He won.  Hotpie moved in with an innkeep at the crossroads, and Gendry… Gendry decided to stay with the brotherhood.  Then they sold him to the Red Woman, and I watched as they carted him away.  Until he rode into Winterfell with you and the Dragon Queen, I’d thought he’d been killed long ago.” A barely concealed flicker of pain crossed her face, and Jon frowned.  He’d felt much the same, not knowing if she’d lived for so many years.  He understood what it felt like to get someone back after thinking them dead for so long.

 

“I ran from the brotherhood, but then the Hound kidnapped me.  He took me to the Riverlands to ransom me to mother and Robb.  We arrived a handful of hours too late for the Red Wedding.  I watched as the paraded Robb’s body around with Grey Wind’s head sewn onto his neck.  That’s when I added Walder Frey to my list.” Arya didn’t look at Jon, though she could still see out of the corner of her eye how his brow furrowed.

 

“Your list?”

 

“Of people I was going to kill.” She stated matter-of-factly, as though it was quite common to have a personal kill list.  He shook his head ever so slightly, pushing a stray strand of hair out of his face as they walked.

 

“Do you still have it?”

 

“It used to be longer.” Silence lapsed between them for a few paces.  Jon wasn’t sure what to say to the knowledge that his little sister had a kill list. He glanced at her when she opened her mouth to speak again.

 

“The Hound took me to the Erie, but we arrived a couple days after Littlefinger pushed Aunt Lysa out of the moondoor and took over the Vale.  Then we ran into Brienne of Tarth, she battled the Hound and wounded him mortally.  I took his silver and left him to die in the wilderness.” 

 

“Why?” He frowned as she shrugged.

 

“He was on my list.” It didn’t seem like the truth, but she had said he’d been on trial by the Brotherhood.  He must have done something to earn his place on that list.

 

‘But not anymore…”

 

“No, not anymore.  After I left him, I traveled to the sea.  I found a Braavosi ship captain and gave him the coin and said the words, and he took me across the ocean to Braavos.  He left me at the steps of the House of Black and White, where the Faceless Men are.  I trained with them.  But I had to stop being Arya Stark.  To be a Faceless Man, you have to become No One.”  A look of realization dawned on his face, before it settled into a mixture of affection and annoyance.

 

“So, when you said ‘No One’ taught you to fight like that, you were actually telling the truth?” He said, chuckling dryly, shaking his head.

 

“I never lied to you, brother.  Jaqen H’gar and the Waif trained me how to fight, how to kill, how to change who I was with my body and my voice without using the faces.  They were truly No One though.  I broke the rules and stole a face to cross a name off my list, and the God of Death demanded a price.”  Her face settled into a grimace.  These memories were quite fresh, they stung more than the older ones.

 

“What price?”

 

“He took my eyes.  I spent the next year as a blind beggar on the streets of Braavos after they kicked me out.  Every day, the Waif would come and find me, and beat me with her staff until I learned to hear her movements and could fight back against her.  Jaqen brought me back to the House of Black and White, kept training me to live without my eyes. I learned poisons by smell, learned to move around a room without making a sound, learned how to _feel_ the world around me.  Then I was tested, and I was given my eyes back.” The idea of Arya passing the test of some God didn’t seem to quite fit, but he’d been brought back from the dead by the Red God, who was he to question what was real. But she wasn’t in Braavos, she was here with him.

 

“But you left.”

 

“Yes, I left.  Not before failing them again though.  I was supposed to kill an actress, but I couldn’t.  She was a good woman, and I couldn’t justify her death.  I warned her and fled, but the Waif came for me.  She used a face and snuck up on me.  She stabbed me in the belly a dozen times before I jumped into the canal.  I went to the actress for help, but she paid with her life in the end anyway.  The God of Death always gets the names he is promised.” Arya frowned looking down at the path she walked.  She still regretted that the most of all her time in Braavos.  She’d tried so hard to save the actress, Lady Crane, but she’d still died in the end.

 

“The Waif?” Arya just nodded.

 

“She chased me through the city, but I led her into the dark, and I drove Needle into her heart. She couldn’t see, but I didn’t need to.  I took her face and put it on the wall in the Hall of Faces.  I decided I was not going to be No One, I was going to be Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I was going home.”  Even though he could hear the pride in her voice, a bitter sadness still lingered on her face. 

 

“And you made it”

 

“Yes, but I still had my list. I landed in Gulltown and made my way to the Twins.  I killed Walder Frey and stole his face.  Then I held a feast, gave every Frey man a flagon of poisoned wine, and watched as they choked to death on their own blood.”  The look on his face was the one that she had not wanted to see.  Horror. Shock.  He’d not understood until that moment what she was capable of.  He’d known she’d killed out of need, now he knew she killed out of that dark and hungry desire for revenge. 

 

“Arya!”

 

“They killed Robb and mother, guests in their home, age old allies.  They got what they deserved.  The north remembers.” She growled, tearing her gaze away from his face.  She couldn’t stomach the fear in his gaze.  This was why she’d only told Sansa the highlights, though her sister had really only been shocked when she learned what happened to the Frey’s.  Sansa’s blue eyes had flashed with approval and vengeance, Jon’s were wary and afraid.

 

“And then?” he asked quietly, brows furrowed as he studied her.  So much had changed since they’d parted as children all those years ago.  She wasn’t the same girl she had been before; of that he was certain.

 

“I was heading back to the King’s Road to go south to kill Cersei when I found out that you’d retaken Winterfell and been named King in the North.  So, I rode home north.  To see you.” Her face had softened at those words, and she glanced back to him, her gray eyes locking with his brown ones.  There wasn’t fear in his eyes anymore, fondness creeping back into his gaze.  She broke the look, leaning closer just a hint so their shoulders brushed as they walked.  They fell into an easy silence once more, the crunch of his boots the only sound in the Godswood now.

 

“How long have you loved him?” he asked, breaking the silence, raising a brow at her much the way she was always doing to him.

 

“Really?  From all that, and you’re asking about him?” She snapped; her tone exasperated.  She’d just told him how she’d become a trained killer, and he wanted to ask about her blacksmith. 

 

“How long.” She glared at him for a long moment before looking away, sighing as her face softened as she looked out into the snow-covered forest. 

 

“Since I was old enough to know what love is. He kept me safe, he cared about me, he never asked me to be anything other than what I am.  We were each other’s family.  He… when we were with the brotherhood, I asked him to leave and come to Winterfell with me.  To come and smith for Robb.  To come with me and be my family. He chose to stay with the brotherhood, saying I wouldn’t be his family, I’d be his Lady.” She sighed, shaking her head.

 

“He was probably right in the end, things were different then than they are now.  Bastards never dreamed of being anything, let alone King in the North.” She said, her tone teasing as she looked at her brother. Anger raged in his eyes, but she shook her head and fixed him with her own gaze of steel and fire.

 

“Don’t lose your head over it, its in the past.  I buried him in my heart, the way I buried mother and father and Robb and Rickon.  When I saw him ride in along the King’s Road, breathing and _alive_ after all these years, I forgave him for leaving.  Family forgives, and he’s my family now.”  The look softened when she proclaimed the blacksmith her family.  He had always been her family, but now he was back at her side, and she would never let anything come between them again.  Jon looked down at his boots, scuffing them on a log as he glowered at his toes.

 

“And he makes you happy?” he asked, looking over at her.  A warm smile flickered over her face, accompanied by a soft blush spreading over her cheeks.  Jon wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Arya blush over someone before.

 

“He makes me feel _alive_.  He’s the only one who doesn’t ask me to be anything I’m not.  I… I can just be myself; he loves me even after everything I’ve done.” Arya had never been accepted wholly by anyone other than Jon.  He’d been the only other person in her life who’d never asked her to change who she was just because the world demanded something from her.  Jon knew everyone was always asking her to be things she wasn’t.  Sansa still asked her to be a Lady, as would Daenerys and no doubt many others.  They’d want her to marry for politics or power when the war was ended. They’d want to stick her in a dress in a castle to spend her days as her Lady Mother had always dreamed, running the house of some Lord. Jon knew that life would never make her happy though. 

 

“Will you marry him?” Arya smacked his shoulder, Jon wincing slightly as she struck a bruise.  A confused look crossed her face before she furrowed her brows and shrugged.

 

“Maybe. There are still things I need to do.” She scowled down at her boots now, and Jon could practically see the thoughts racing past her eyes. 

 

“Oh? And what would those things be?” he asked, almost playfully.  She looked at Jon, her face that cool unreadable mask once more.  The ice in her gaze almost made him shiver as he met her gray eyes.

 

“There are still names on my list.”

 

 

 


	17. The Smith in His Forge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Gendry gets some visitors in the forge

-  Gendry  -

 

 

The state of the forge wasn’t as bad as it could have been.  There were a couple broken workbenches, one small portion of the roof had taken some damage, but nothing that wasn’t fixable.  The fires in the forge had died out overnight.  Somehow, Gendry’s cloak had still managed to keep its place on its peg by the forge, but it didn’t provide quite enough warmth.  He moved more slowly than usual, favoring his left leg as he hauled armfuls of firewood towards the mouth of the forge.  He stuffed it with dry tinder before striking at it with a firesteel and a chunk of dragonglass.  For all its other qualities, nothing sparked better than dragonglass. 

 

He smiled and leaned in as the tinder caught and flames started to lick at the logs.  It would take several hours and lots of building and burning to generate a healthy bed of coals in the forge.  There was plenty to do while the fire burned though.  He rubbed his hands together near the growing fire, letting out a sigh as the warmth started to wash over him.  After spending the last day wrapped in warm furs and Arya’s arms, he’d nearly forgotten how cold Winterfell was. 

 

There was already a pile of blades and armor that needed mending, having been dropped by weary soldiers as they trudged their way to the main castle for healing and rest.  Gendry started sorting through the armor, deciding what would be repaired and what would be melted down and reused.  He was leaning slightly against one of the columns of the forge, inspecting a blade when he heard footsteps approaching.  His heart didn’t jump or race.  It couldn’t be Arya, she’d never make that much noise.

 

He was greeted by the sight of Ser Davos, a broad smile settling over the old smuggler’s face as he walked across the forge towards Gendry.  The blacksmith smiled, setting down the blade he had been studying, pushing himself off the pillar.  He didn’t mind when the Onion Knight pulled him in for a gruff hug, pulling back and gripping Gendry by the shoulders. 

 

“We fuckin’ did it, lad.” Davos said, grinning at the young man, clapping him on the shoulder before pulling away to go warm himself by the forge.  Gendry chuckled, rubbing a hand over his short hair, following Ser Davos to the fire.  He picked up a poker, shifting some of the logs, pleased to see some coals beginning to form.  He picked up a few more dry logs, adding them to the blaze, enjoying the warmth as the wood popped and crackled.

 

“It was Arya who did it, actually.  She killed the Night King” he said, unable to control the swelling of pride in his voice.  His she-wolf had saved them all.  Ser Davos glanced at the younger man, studying the blacksmith.  Davos knew that look; he’d seen it on many a man’s face.  The boy was in love.

 

“Aye, Jon told us in the courtyard shortly after dawn.  Couldn’t find you though… Imagine my surprise when I went to ask Jon if he’d seen you, and Lady Arya declared you were asleep in her chambers.” Davos said, fixing Gendry with his blue eyes.  He wasn’t a fool; Davos knew what happened when a lady took a man back to her bedchambers.  He knew it to be true when the young blacksmith blushed red and looked away. 

 

“Do you know what you’re doin’ lad?”  Gendry let out a low chuckle and shook his head, sighing as he looked back towards the Onion Knight.

 

“I’m doing whatever she asks of me, Ser Davos.  I was an idiot and I lost her once.  I’m going to do whatever it takes not to lose her again” he said, kicking at the gavel with his boot a little bit, turning to poke at the fire to avoid looking back at the other man.  He added another log to the fire, looking back at the former smuggler. 

 

“You know Jon Snow will murder ya if you break her heart…” Davos offered, a smile cracking over Gendry’s face. 

 

“I’m sure he’ll have to get in line, she’s probably already decided how she wants to kill me if I do something stupid like that,” he joked, shaking his head.  He knew the former King in the North would be furious, but he’d be much more concerned about wrath from Arya if he ever did something stupid like try to leave her again.

 

“You once told me, after a little too much wine I’d say, that you knew Arya Stark.  You wouldn’t tell me how before…”  Ser Davos pressed, turning to lean against the forge to warm his back in the heat of the flames. 

 

“When we were children, we were traveling north with a brother of the Nights Watch taking us to the wall.  Yoren was secretly taking Arya back to Winterfell on the way, but we didn’t make it.  We spent three years surviving in the Riverlands together until I was an idiot and chose to follow the Brotherhood Without Banners instead of following her back to Winterfell.  The red woman carted me off to Dragonstone, and you pretty much know the rest.” He said, mirroring Davos as he turned to let the heat of the forge warm his back.  Davos studied the young man, the regret for the past clearly written on his face. 

 

“And you love her”

 

“More than anything.”  _I am yours and you are mine._   Those words spun in his head, those sweet words that had nearly brought him to tears that morning.  Those beautiful gray eyes of hers peering into his with such sincerity.  Somehow, he’d have to convince that woman to let him say those words to her in front of a weirwood tree.  He had a feeling that might be another battle he would lose.  She’d always told him as a child that she would never marry, never be someone’s Lady, never have children.  Maybe he would have to be content to simply love her for all his days.  After all, who could truly own a she-wolf?

 

“Be good to her.  The love of a woman like that is a rare thing,” Ser Davos said after quite a long pause, reaching up to squeeze Gendry’s shoulder gently.  There was finally a small bed of coals that had formed in the forge, and it was beginning to get that red-hot glow he was used to.  Gendry grabbed an ingot, shoving it into the coals with a pair of tongs, pulling off his cloak as the heat from the forge finally spread enough to warm the air.

 

“I’ll leave you be lad, see you at the feast tonight,” Davos said, pushing himself away from the forge and taking his leave of the smith, though he cast a glance back at the young man who was turning the ingot in the coals.  He shook his head, smiling fondly at the lad.  Ah, to be young and in love again. Gendry pulled the glowing hunk of steel from the coals, lifting his hammer carefully before bringing it down on the metal with a flash of sparks.  His arms ached, but it felt good to move in such a familiar way again. 

 

Gendry didn’t much notice the passage of time once he started working the steel.  His muscles burned and sweat rolled down his brow as he brought his hammer down over and over against the molten metal.  He shoved the half-formed ax head into the coals of the forge, tossing a couple more logs into it.  He wasn’t going to let it go out again, he’d lost half the morning waiting for it to heat properly.  He turned from his workbench, dragging a cloth across his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes. 

 

All was quiet in the forge for a moment, save for the crackling of the fresh logs on the fire.  He gazed into the flames for a long moment, before that feeling of being watched again started to creep over him.  He whirled around, not sure what he expected to find, but certainly not the sight that was before him.  A steaming bowl of stew with a generous hunk of bread sat on his main workbench. On the other one sat Arya, one leg crossed over the other as she sat there, spinning Catspaw between her fingers.  Somehow, she’d been able to arrive _with food_ and still climb up onto that table without making a sound. He looked from her to the bowl of stew and back to her, a playful smile breaking over his face. 

 

“So, it _was_ you bringing me food before. I’ll never be able to figure out how you move so quietly,” he said, walking past the food towards her.  She uncrossed her legs, spreading her knees slightly and leaning forward.  With her sitting up on the table, she could look down at him for once. 

 

“No, you won’t,” she teased, quirking a dark brow at him. He walked up to her, standing between her knees, placing his hands on the workbench beside her.  She tucked Catspaw away in its sheath, reaching up to caress her fingers over his head gently, pulling him just a bit closer as she leaned down to kiss him.  His hands slid from the tabletop to rest on her hips, wanting to pull her closer as he leaned into the kiss.  She broke the kiss, leaning her forehead against his, trailing her fingers gently along his cheek.

 

“What are you making?” she asked, pulling back slightly to nod her head towards the metal heating in the forge.  He leaned back a bit, remembering that he needed to pay attention to that metal or it would lose the shape he’d hammered it into so far.  He picked up his tongs, lifting the ax head from the embers.

 

“One handed ax, going to make arrowheads too.  The men are going to need steel when they go south,” he said, picking up his hammer and starting to pound at the glowing hot metal once more.  He could still feel her eyes on him, but she just watched now.  She did mention how she had enjoyed watching him work. He quenched the piece in the bucket of water before it went back into the forge.  He wiped his hands, picking up the bowl of stew, taking a hefty bite.  Even though they’d had breakfast, his stomach growled for lunch now. 

 

“How’d your talk with Jon go?” he asked, shooting her a slightly concerned gaze.  He’d become friends with the former King in the North instantly.  They’d bonded over their bastard parentage, over stories of the north, over their mutual desire to fight for the living.  He’d spent good hours talking and drinking with the man, but Jon hadn’t said a word to him since before the battle.  He had a feeling it would take a while for Jon to forgive him for taking his sister to bed, even though it was more appropriate to say that Arya had taken him to her bed, not the other way around. 

 

Had she not kissed him first in the forge storeroom, he would never have dared.  Partially because she’d probably cut off something important as punishment.  Partially because he’d never think of overstepping the class boundaries between them, though Arya had shattered those repeatedly.  Arya sighed slightly, looking away from him to glance around the forge.

 

“As well as can be expected.  I’m not sure there’s a normal response to the ‘your little sister is now a faceless assassin’ conversation” she teased, though the words were halfhearted.  She’d seen Jon’s fear at her words.  He still loved her, but what she was capable of frightened her big brother.  She looked back over at Gendry, who had now finished most of his stew, and was mopping up the broth with the bread.

 

“He’ll come around eventually… He wants me to be happy, so he won’t try to keep us apart,” she said, looking back at the smith as he finished his bread.  Gendry swallowed, setting the empty bowl aside, making his way back over to her. 

 

“How much did you tell him?” he asked, raising his brows at her with concern.  She had promised to tell Jon _everything_ , but how much had that really entailed.  Arya rolled her eyes, chuckling at her foolish blacksmith.  Her brother could be thick sometimes, but Jon knew what happened between adults behind closed doors.

 

“Let’s say he won’t be surprised that you sleep in my room from now on” she teased, picking up one of the shards of dragonglass that lay scattered around the workbench.  She hadn’t gone into the details of the night before the battle with her older brother.  She was lucky he hadn’t decked Gendry so far; she didn’t need to give him a reason to now.  She smirked as she watched a blush spread over Gendry’s face.

 

“You’re going to get me killed, woman,” He said, chuckling and shaking his head.  It stirred something in the pit of her stomach when he called her _woman_.  Everyone still saw her as a girl because she was small.  He saw her as she was.  She looked at him a flash of sadness crossing her face before she looked away. 

 

“Quite possibly… There are still names on my list.  When the army marches south, I ride with them,” she said, giving a sweeping gaze across the forge.  When she rode south, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever make it back to see this place again.  He looked over at her, shock flashing across his face.

 

“You still want to kill Cersei?  After everything? After killing the Night King?” he said, his brows furrowing, a tinge of anger in his voice.  They’d fought and they’d won, she’d ended the night and saved the living.  Now she wanted to ride south, _towards_ the danger.  Possibly to her death.  He shoved the end of the tongs into the forge, pacing over to her, his blue eyes having turned dark like a storm. For the first time in a few days, she quirked a brow and regarded him with a cool gaze.

 

“The best laid plans often fail, and I don’t know anyone else who could possibly get close enough to her to do it.  If Jon and Daenerys can’t do it, someone has to.”  She stated it as though it was a matter of fact, as though there were only three options. 

 

“But why does it have to be you?” He was almost shouting, anger flashing across his face.  A thousand possibilities ran through his head.  She might get captured by the Queens’s soldiers, she might get injured or killed in her attempt to kill the Queen.  She might fail and be executed for her treason.  Why did she keep having to put herself in harm’s way?

 

“Why can’t this be enough?” he asked, gesturing around the forge, at the castle that had always been her home.  He wasn’t asking her about Winterfell though.  If she was going to King’s Landing, where was he to go?  What was he going to do without her?  Why wasn’t he enough to make her stay?  She sighed, reaching out to cup his cheek in her hand gentle.  The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by the true base emotion; fear.  He had just found her again, and he was terrified of losing her. 

 

“Once there are no more names left on my list, then it will be,” she said, caressing his cheek gently with her thumb.  She reached out with her other hand, reaching to curl her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer to her.  She pressed a kiss to his lips, silently begging him to understand.  It was something that she _had_ to finish.  She couldn’t move forward with her life until either the list was finished, or she had met her end trying.

 

“And besides, we might both die just trying to get into the city.  If it comes to it, this time I’m fighting at your side,” she said, her eyes flashing with determination.  He raised his brows, understanding finally crossing his face.  She wasn’t leaving him behind; she was asking him to come with her.  They’d fought apart in the last war, and it had been torture trying to find her afterwards.  If they were going to fight and die, he wanted to be at her side until his last breath.  He let out a resigned sigh, reaching out to wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her close to the edge of the table as he kissed her deeply.  She sighed into his kiss, draping her arms around his neck, trailing her fingers over his head gently. He pulled back from the kiss, pressing their foreheads together.

 

“As if you could get me to fight anywhere but at your side, _Milady_.” He teased, earning himself a playful swat on the chest before she kissed him again deeply.  He groaned, wanting to pull her closer, her legs curling around his waist as their tongues danced and twined.  He forgot about the ax head in the forge.  He forgot they were technically out in the open.  He forgot anything that wasn’t Arya.  All he knew was the taste of her kiss, the feeling of her hands in his hair, the press of her body against his.  They were too wrapped up in each other to notice the heavy footfalls that stalked into the forge, interrupted by the snarling voice of the Hound

 

“Oi, finish tongue fucking you two.  Its time to light the funeral pyres.  You’re both expected.”

 

 

 


	18. And Now Their Watch Is Ended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya/other
> 
> Of the disaster that was S8E4, one scene I didn't hate was the burning of the pyres.

-  Arya  -

 

 

All that remained of the living gathered at the entrance to Winterfell.  The castle has been bustling with life ever since the battle had ended, but now it stood silent.  Soft flakes of snow drifted gently through the air as those that remained gazed out across the field of the dead.  The remaining soldiers had worked for the last day and a half, turning shifts piling the bodies of the dead into the pyres.  It was hard to determine how many of the dead had come south with the Night King, and how many had been their own losses.  The Unsullied and Dothraki were obvious, but the rest of the men and women were just that, common folk who could have been from anywhere.

 

The row of pyres stretched across the great plains that flanked Winterfell.  An Unsullied stood at each corner, torch in hand, waiting for the signal to light.  The Starks stood apart from the Dragon Queen.  Daenerys stood near her advisors, Missandei and Gray Worm at her side, Tyrion close by.  Varys was no doubt lurking somewhere, watching and listening.  The Starks stood together, Jon and Sansa shoulder to shoulder, the remaining northern soldiers gathered behind them.  Arya stood slightly off to the side, Gendry standing rigid beside her.  He’d tried to stay near the back, but she had dragged him forward. 

 

_Your place is beside me._

 

She had insisted, and he had obeyed. She longed to take his hand, but now was not the time.  There were plenty of hours for that later, now they were here to remember the dead.  Dany stepped away from her companions, walking slowly to the pyre closest to her.  unbridled grief washed over her face as she looked down at the pale visage of Ser Jorah, his skin cold and grey in death. Arya watched as the Dragon Queen leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss to his head.  Tears rolled down Daenery’s face and slowly she pulled back, not bothering to wipe her tears as she walked back to her friends.  She gripped Missandei’s hand tightly, holding onto the other woman for strength.  She needed it more than ever. 

 

Sansa was able to keep her head held high until she stood next to Theon’s body.  Pain overwhelmed her, a tortured expression etched onto her face as sobs wracked her body.  They’d faced so much together, and she’d only just had him back for a single quiet moment before he was taken from her.  she curled her hands into a fist as she braced herself against the pyre, tears falling from her face onto his armor.  Slowly, when she could breathe once more, she reached into the fabric of her cloak to pull out a direwolf pin.  She leaned down, tucking it into a strap on Theon’s armor.  He had been as much a Stark as any of them. Sansa returned to her place beside Jon, tears still flowing freely down her cheeks, the great Lady of Winterfell doing nothing to stop them.  She wore her grief proudly, for to have lost was to have loved, and she had faced both. 

 

Jon stepped forward, looking back at the crowd behind him and the soldiers before him, standing among the rows of countless dead.  He cleared his throat slightly, opening his mouth for just a moment as if looking for the right words before he started to speak.

 

“We’re here to say goodbye to our brothers and sisters.  To our fathers and mothers. To our friends. Our fellow men and women who set aside their differences to fight together and die together. So that others might live. Everyone in this world owes them a debt that can never be repaid.  It is our duty and our honor to keep them alive in memory for those who come after us. We shall never see their like again.  They were the shields that guarded the realms of men. And now their watch is ended.”  Silence echoed over the field when Jon finished.  Arya, Jon, Sansa, Dany, and Samwell all took up torches, each walking towards a pyre.

 

Arya looked down at the gray face of Ser Berric.  She had hated him for so long for selling Gendry to the red witch.  He had died and come back half a dozen time, just so he could give his life one last time to give her precious moments to escape the hands of death.  He had died and lived and died again, just so he could die for her at the right moment. She understood now why he did what he had done.  He had tried to do what he thought was right, in his own way, same as her.  She had removed him from her list long ago, but it still made her chest ache to see him pale and still now. 

 

Samwell stood at the corner of the pyre, staring down at Edd’s face.  His lip trembled as he looked at his brother in black, tears spilling down his cheeks into his beard.  If he hadn’t been such a useless coward, Edd might have been standing at his side instead of lying on the pyre.  He was the better fighter, the better ranger, the better man of the nights watch.  It was he who should have made it through that fight, not Sam.  Now, it was all he could do to choke back sobs as he was faced with the cold face of his friend.

 

Jon had found Lyanna Mormont’s body first, her chestplate crushed into her body in the hand of a giant wight.  He’d wiped the blood from her mouth before Ser Davos had seen her.  Both he and the Onion Knight had shed tears for the loss of the Lady of Bear island.  She had been tiny and ferocious and a thousand feet tall.  She had been just as fearless in death as she had in life, a warrior just like her mother.

 

The tears had dried on Daenerys’s face, but fresh tracks were formed when she returned to the side of the pyre that held Ser Jorah.  He had been by her side for so many years.  He’d protected her all her life, followed her all over the world, come crawling back even when she’d banished him twice.  He’d cured an uncurable disease, just to get back to her side.  When she’d fallen from Drogon, the fear and death have overwhelmed her.  He’d fought them off, one by one, for what felt like hours.  She had never been able to love him the way he loved her.  She had loved him in her own way, and she hoped she’d shown him how much she really had cared.

 

She’d always had mixed feelings about Theon.  He’d been her brother, raised alongside them, taunting and teasing her along with Robb and the rest. He’d been the only lifeline when Ramsey had tortured her.  He’d given her freedom back and paid a steep price for the crimes he’d committed.  Sansa had forgiven him long ago.  She knew he would have thought it fitting that he die protecting Bran the way he’d failed to do years prior.  She disagreed.  She’d not thought to see him again, and she’d wanted just a little more time.  She never got it beyond that final night.  There was no more time for them. 

 

Jon turned to look at Daenerys, brown eyes meeting violet as the snow fell silently between them.  They shared the smallest of nods before they all began to lower their torches, setting the straw alight.  They left the torches in the sides of the pyres, returning to their places with the crowd.  The fire raged, sending the bodies of the recently deceased and long since dead back to the gods as ash.  Among the crowd, soft sounds could be heard.  A child fussing, the soft whimper of a woman’s barely controlled tears, the rustle of cloaks as couples embraced.

 

Arya shifted ever so slightly, her shoulder brushing against Gendrys, her gloved fingers brushing against his own covered hands.  His gaze flicked to her as he spread his fingers, her hand sliding into his, their fingers locking together.  She would have liked to feel the warmth of his skin on hers, but night was settling in and the air had grown cold as the sun set.  She stood at his side, watching with him as the dead burned.  One by one, the crowd started to dissipate as people silently turned back to their lives.  The common folk walked back to their homes, to eat their supper and climb into the arms of those who remained alive. The soldiers made their way to the great hall, the promise of food and drink luring them back to the warmth of the castle. 

 

Arya stood, watching the fire for some time.  Even when Jon and Sansa had gone inside, she and Gendry stood there alone, the fires raging before them.  Nymeria sat in the snow several feet away, keeping a watchful eye on her girl.  Gendry looked at Arya, her face blank as she started unseeingly into the flames.  He squeezed her hand gently, the movement snapping her from her reverie.

 

“Arya…They’re waiting for you inside…” She looked at him, a deep and tired sadness filling her gaze.  He had to look away, the intensity of the emotion held there was overwhelming. 

 

“Just a few minutes more.” The words were a whispered plea, and he could only nod, squeezing her hand and leaning his shoulder against hers as the darkness fell around them and they stared at the flames.  No tears adorned Arya’s face. She’d already shed her tears for them, now she stood witness as they were sent to meet the Gods.  Those words tickled in the back of her memory as the flames danced in her eyes. 

 

_What do we say to the God of Death?_

_Not Today._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Shit y'all, more than 40k words. Thanks for all the fantastic comments that have kept me pushing forward, can't wait to bring you more!


	19. Lemon Cakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> I still wanted them to have a feast, but left out the stupid parts from E4. 
> 
> Everyone has a little too much wine to drink while celebrating, including Arya.

-  Arya  -

 

 

She wasn’t ready to face the crowd that waited for her in the great hall of Winterfell.  She wasn’t ready to sit at the head of the great table, with the whole court staring at her.  She lingered with Gendry outside the castle walls until night had truly settled around them, and only then had she allowed him to pull her gently back inside the gates.  When she stepped into the great hall, the feast was already quite underway.  There was an empty place for her at the high tables, in-between Jon and Daenerys.  Because _that_ uncomfortable seat is where she wanted to spend her night, no thank you.

 

Arya scanned the room, searching the crowd of faces, a small smile crossing her lips as she found who she was looking for.  She released Gendry’s hand, though he fell in step behind her anyway, not needing her hand to know he was meant to follow her.  She wove through the crowded hall, people quieting for a moment when she brushed past.  She slid onto a bench pulled up to one of the tables, leaning on her elbows as she fixed her gaze on the scarred visage of the Hound.  He was halfway through mangling a whole roasted chicken, a pitcher of ale sitting next to his mug.  He tore his attention away from his meal, scowling at the pair that sat across from him.

 

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be sitting, wolf girl?” he growled, jerking his head towards the empty seat at the high table.  Arya smirked, raising a brow as she looked over her shoulder at the chair.  She shrugged, looking back to Clegane. 

 

“That seat looks pretty uncomfortable to me,” she said, reaching out to grab an empty goblet from the table, pouring herself a cup of wine. 

 

“Don’t blame you.  Who wants to sit next to the King of Scowling and the Dragon Bitch,” Celgane fussed, tearing off a chunk of the breast of his chicken.  Gendry snorted into his own cup of wine, coughing and laughing at the same time as he tried to get the wine out of his airway. Arya raised her brows, almost surprised at the chuckle that pulled itself from her lips.  She’d forgotten how _funny_ the Hound could truly be.  He had no manners, no sense of politeness, just said exactly what he was thinking.  That might be her favorite thing about him. 

 

Gendry had managed to track down a pie of beef and potatoes with peas and gravy.  She watched him stab his fork into the pastry.  Now was definitely not the time to tell him about baking Walder Frey’s sons into a pie and feeding it to him.  The smell of the fire outside the castle walls still lingered in her nose, and she was having difficulty finding her appetite.  She had a few bites of some roasted pork and a slice of bread with cheese, but mostly she had wine. 

 

Gendry argued with the Hound over something concerning ax heads and balancing handles. Arya just surveyed the room, smiling when she noticed Ghost and Nymeria curled up together by the great fireplace.  The smaller white direwolf was curled up between Nymeria and the fireplace, his head resting on his big sister’s back as they snoozed among the din of the party. She found herself smiling to herself as she lifted her cup to her lips, scowling at the flagon when she realized it was empty.  Her second cup of wine had gone more quickly than the first, and the light feeling in her head wasn’t from the wound that was still healing above her eye. 

 

She leaned her shoulder into Gendry’s, looking him over.  His goblet was almost empty as well, his second cup of the night too.  She could see the flush that has started to creep over his face, but it would take much more to make his head spin than it would for her.  Drinking had never really been something she’d done much of.  It dulled her senses and made it impossible to keep tabs on everyone moving around her in the room.  Tonight, that was exactly what she wanted though.  She wanted to be able to ignore the eyes on her back, she wanted to be able to listen to jokes and laugh, _truly laugh_.  She just wanted to be another living body in that hall, enjoying being _alive._

 

The third cup of wine it what did it.  Just enough to push her over the edge so that the background faded out.  Gendry was finishing his own cup of wine when she leaned in and wrapped her arm around his waist.  She found herself just staring at him for a moment, admiring her blacksmith.  One he’d set his cup down, he turned to look at her, one brow raised at her at the way she’d wrapped her arm around him.  Both brows raised in shock but relaxed quickly when she leaned in to capture his lips, kissing him deeply. 

 

“Seven hells, get a room.  I’m trying to eat here,” the Hound growled, Arya breaking the kiss with a chuckle as she looked over at the scowling face of Sandor Clegane. She uncurled her arms from Gendry, though the action earned her a quiet dissatisfied whine from her blacksmith.  She swung her legs out from the bench, standing up from the table for the first time since she’d entered the hall.  She wasn’t as sure on her legs as usual, but she didn’t sway or pitch.

 

“I’ll spare you the torment then,” she teased, brushing her fingers lightly across the back of Gendry’s neck before she stepped away, heading up the side of the hall towards the high table.  Gendry gazed after her longingly, taking a sip from his freshly refilled goblet of wine.

 

“Your wolf-bitch is drunk.”  More of a statement than anything Gendry turned his gaze back to the Hound.  He rolled his eyes at the insult, though he knew by now the Hound didn’t really mean it. He saw the way the Hound’s eyes would soften ever so slightly when he looked at Arya. 

 

“She’s not mine.” That was definitely a statement of fact.  No one could own Arya Stark, no one but herself.  The Hound snorted into his ale and nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

“You’re right, no one can own her.  You belong to her now.” He said, gesturing to her with a chicken leg before taking a massive bite, washing the meat down with more ale.  Gendry flushed, starting to protest.

 

“I don’t belong…” He didn’t even get to finish before the Hound cut him off.

 

“Yes you do” the older man said, glowering at the young blacksmith.  Gendry sighed, looking back over his shoulder towards the High table where Arya had slid into a chair beside her Lady sister, his heart soaring at the sight of her.  Hers was a different beauty than Sansa’s, but to him it burned more brightly than anything.  He really couldn’t deny that Celgane was right. 

 

“…Yeah I do” he said, smiling into his cup of wine, Clegane giving an exaggerated roll of his eyes before tearing back into his second chicken. 

 

Arya made herself comfortable in a chair beside Sansa while her sister’s head was turned, and she spoke to Jon.  Even after three cups of wine, she could still sneak up on her sister.  Mischief crept across her face as she spied a prize on her sister’s plate.  _A lemon cake_.  There was a whole platter of them on the high table, made specially for Sansa, but Arya wanted the one that already belonged to her big sister.

 

She reached out carefully, swiping the bite sized cake from her sister’s plate.  It was right at that moment Sansa started to turn, and Arya needed to do something with her plunder.  She couldn’t palm the cake without crushing it, so she did the next best thing and put the whole lemon cake in her mouth, her cheeks puffing out ever so slightly. She’d still managed to surprise her sister, Sansa giving a start at the sight of Arya at her side. 

 

“Gods, Arya.  Always sneaking up on me,” she said, smiling at her little sister before she noticed the strange look on Arya’s face and the sudden and distinct lack of a lemon cake on her plate.  Sansa raised a finely arched brow, looking back to her little sister.

 

“Arya… did you steal my lemon cake?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.  Was Arya actually _playing around_ with her?  The younger Stark sister gave an exaggerated shrug, looking around in mock innocence as she chewed a few times before swallowing the treat she’d hidden in her mouth.

 

“Sansa, I have no idea what you’re talking about?” she teased, a true grin cracking across Sansa’s face as the two sisters began to laugh.  It had been years since they’d laughed together this way.  Sansa reached out to squeeze Arya’s hand as the pair laughed, the two sisters leaning their heads together as they tried to suppress their giggles.

 

“Why did you always like to steal off my plate anyway? We always still had the same food,” Sansa asked, squeezing her little sister’s hand affectionately.  Arya shrugged and smiled a bit, thinking back to when they had been little, and she’d always tried to take food of Sansa’s plate.  Her sister was right, they’d always had the same thing, but mostly she just liked messing with Sansa.

 

“Yours always looked prettier…and I liked to mess with you,” she said, squeezing her sister’s hand back, leaning their shoulders together.  Arya made the mistake of letting her gaze wander from her sister down the table to where Daenerys sat quietly.  The Dragon Queen was sipping at her wine, violet eyes scanning the room.  Arya’s heart sank when those eyes came to rest on her face.  A look settled over the blonde’s face as she reached for her goblet once more.  The petite woman stood, the rest of the room taking a few moments to notice but standing as well.  Conversations hushed as they all waited for the Queen to speak.

 

Arya stood as well, freeing her fingers from Sansa’s as she waited to hear whatever it was the Dragon Queen had to say.  Daenerys lifted her goblet, fixing her eyes on Arya.

 

“To Arya Stark, hero of Winterfell.  She killed the Night King and brought the dawn.  Without her, we would not be here today.” the Queen said, her words ringing through the hall, cheers and whooping erupting over the crowd.  Some even howled their homage to the she-wolf of Winterfell.  Daenerys smiled at Arya, raising her goblet and drinking, but Arya did not return the look.  If she’d tried to win favor with praise, she’d gone about it all wrong.  Arya didn’t care about being _the Hero of Winterfell_ , she just cared about keeping her family safe, and this woman wanted to tear them apart.   

 

All eyes had turned to her with the cheers, and she felt like a wolf backed into a corner, longing to run but seeing no exit.  When the Queen and the crowd finally sat once more, she pulled away from her sister’s side, taking several steps back into the shadows at the edge of the hall, creeping towards the doorway.  Her head was spinning, and the hall was entirely too loud.  She looked back around the room, searching for her blacksmith.  He wasn’t sitting with the Hound anymore, and she couldn’t see him among the faces.

 

Ever so slightly she felt the air move behind her, and she whirled around, Catspaw drawn from its sheath as she whirled to face Gendry, who had almost succeeded in sneaking up on her.  His cheeks were just as flushed as he looked at her in shock.

 

“Remind me to not try to sneak up on you again,” he joked, rubbing the back of his head as she tucked the dagger away.  She pushed his chest lightly, brushing past him and into the corridor, the glow and noise of the hall quieter back there.  He turned and followed her into the dark, letting out a surprised grunt when she grabbed him by the tunic and pushed him up against the wall, kissing him deeply.  His arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her in close, her kisses warm and hungry in the darkness.  They panted as they broke apart, need clearly written across their faces.  The excess wine they’d drunk certainly didn’t help dampen the heat that burned between them.

 

She kissed him once more, grabbing his hand before turning to lead him away from the great hall, back to their chambers. She flushed when she saw his own blue eyes grow dark and hungry as he raked them over her, biting her lip as they raced up the stairs. She had decided, he was definitely wearing far too much clothing. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poll for the comments, do you want me to keep including full sex scenes? I enjoy writing them, but I dont want to overdo if you dont agree.


	20. Damaged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> After the feast, they feast.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

Gendry had seen the flash of panic on Arya’s face when the Dragon Queen rose to give a toast.  The right side of the hall where Arya stood was too crowded to get by, so he stood from his seat by the Hound and made his way along the side of the room to the left.  He should have known better than to sneak up on Arya, even in a night of revelry such as this, since she whirled on him so quickly, dagger in hand.  She’d given him an annoyed shove and breezed past him into the corridor, and he’d turned to follow as always.

 

His grunt of surprise at being shoved roughly up against the stone wall was muffled by Arya crushing her lips to his hungrily, a feverish dance between their lips that made him groan as his head started to spin.  He didn’t resist when she began to pull him through the halls back to her bed, finding his gaze was drawn steadily downwards from her shoulders to the curve of her hips and ass swaying side to side as she led him up the stairs. 

 

The door to her chambers closed, and suddenly her hands were all over him, pushing up under his shirt to rake her nails over his chest as she dragged him back down into a deep kiss.  He returned the gesture with fervor, hands working to untie the straps of her tunic just as quickly as they had before in the forge.  This wasn’t urgency brought on by the impending gloom of death, this was _hunger._ He pulled away only to tug his shirt off over his head, not caring where it fell as they stripped away their clothes.  They were rushed and hurried, but only because they couldn’t stand the touch of anything else for another moment more.

 

They stood for a moment, both stark naked, faces flushed and chests heaving as they regarded each other with desire-filled eyes.  It was Gendry who moved first, taking a step forward towards Arya and wrapping his arms around her waist.  She let out a surprised squeak when he picked her up, her arms wrapping around his neck as he carried her to the bed.  He laid her down on the sheets, a wave of heat rushing over him as she looked up at him.  Her lips were pink and swollen from kissing, her hair fanned over the pillow around her head, chest heaving as she panted with need.

 

“God’s you’re beautiful,” he murmured before he climbed into the bed on top of her.  He held himself above her with his arms, her legs sliding along his in an attempt to curl around his waist and bring their bodies closer.  He didn’t let her lock their bodies together yet, he wanted more.  He began kissing down her neck, sitting back on his knees as his hands roamed from her hips, up her sides, then back down to grip her thighs.  His kisses began to dip lower, and the soft whines of need that fell from her lips only served to increase his fervor. 

 

He felt her go still under his touch when his lips reached her abdomen.  She was still ashamed of her scars, and it made his heart ache to realize her pain.  Gently, he began to kiss along the scars, peppering each one with soft kisses as he repositioned one of her legs over his shoulder.  She’d come to him two nights before as a virgin.  She’d acted confident when she shoved him back onto the grain sacks, but there was still plenty that she didn’t know. 

The sound she made when he tugged her hips towards him and pressed his mouth to her sex was like music to his ears.  He slid his tongue between her folds, starting to curl circles around her clit with his tongue.  She whined and moaned, her hands clenching and releasing as she grasped at the sheets.  He could feel her toes curling against his back, her hips bucking up against him.  He pulled back for just a moment, looking up at her face.  His eyes darkened at the sight before him.  Her hands gripped the sheets, her face flushed pink with wine and pleasure.  Her chest heaved with each breath, and she stared at him with half closed eyes, desire spread across her face. 

 

He moved one hand from her hips, sliding his fingers along her gently before he pushed two digits into her entrance.  She groaned as his fingers entered her, gasping when he leaned down to press his lips back to her sex.  He curled his fingers upwards as though he was beckoning her pleasure forward.  He sucked on her clit, lavishing attention on that little nub as he rocked his fingers into her.  Arya’s moans were growing closer and closer together, until her body arched up from the bed, an almost pained cry falling from her lips as she came.  He could feel her clench around his fingers as her thighs pressed against his ears. 

 

When she relaxed into the bed, he pulled his fingers from her slowly, biting his lip as he looked down at her.  She trembled below him, her body still twitching with pleasure as she reached up to pull him down for a kiss.  She didn’t care that his mouth tasted like her, she just wanted him.  He groaned into the kiss, his hands finding their way back to her hips as he pulled her closer.  She was more than ready, and he was achingly hard.  He wrapped one of her legs around his waist, and she followed suit with the other.  They groaned together when he closed pressed into her, bringing them as close as two people could be.  As wonderful as his fingers had been, Arya still preferred the real thing. 

 

Gendry kissed her deeply, moving one hand from her hips to grip the headboard as he started to move.  This time was not like before, when they’d both been so tired that gentle and slow had been their only option.  They were still healing, but with wine in their bellies, the aches of their wounds were forgotten in the heat of the moment.  Now their bodies collided over and over, Arya’s hips bucking up to meet Gendry’s, rough and needy. 

 

Her nails raked down his back, leaving marks on his skin as she peaked again.  He hadn’t even realized how close he was until she was squeezing around him, her legs tightening around his waist involuntarily as she trembled and twitched.  His knuckles turned white as he gripped the headboard, groaning out her name as he spilled himself deep inside her.  He let go of the bed, stabilizing himself above her as they panted and shuddered, their bodies still twined together.  He leaned down to kiss her breathlessly, her arms wrapping around his neck as she returned the kiss fervently. 

 

He wasn’t expecting her to twist their bodies and roll them over, his cock still buried inside her as they switched positions.  She pulled back from the kiss, shifting her body so she was straddling his waist properly, her hands resting on his chest.  He had started to soften slightly when she started rolling her hips against his, her body still clenching around him.  He could feel the blood rushing back to his member as she ground their bodies together, bringing him back to hardness as they continued.  He would never get enough of her.  He would always want to kiss and touch her, worship every part of her body until he collapsed. So, he did.

 

\- - -

 

When Gendry woke, the light of the morning was entirely too bright, and his head ached.  He grumbled softly, pulling the warm body of his she-wolf closer into his chest.  He nuzzled his face into her hair, breathing in the smell of her.  Her hair had fallen loose during their frenzied lovemaking the night before, now it fell around her face as she slept.  He looked down at her though half closed eyes, a smile settling over his face as he admired her.  Her lips were ever so slightly swollen from their heated kisses the night before.  He could feel where her nails had scratched his back, where her mouth had kissed and bit at his skin until she left marks.  He’d returned the favor, a small purple love mark blooming on her collarbone. 

 

He caressed his hand up and down her back gently, nuzzling his nose against her forehead when he felt her start to wake in his embrace.  She made a soft humming sound, cracking one gray eye to peek up at him.  Her head must be aching like his was.  Neither of them were very used to wine, and it had certainly overwhelmed them the night before.  Ale was never that strong, he could have half a dozen flagons before his head would start to spin.  It must have been some strong wine.  He kissed her forehead, running his fingers through her hair gently.

 

“G’morning beautiful,” he murmured, smiling against her skin as she tapped his chest playfully, the weakest slap he’d ever seen.  With a sigh, she pulled back, sitting up and yawning as she looked down at him. 

 

“Stupid bull…” she said, leaning down to kiss him gently before she climbed out of the bed.  He watched appreciatively as she crossed the room completely naked.  Had they not done it three times the night before, he might have pulled her back into his arms for another round.  He was snapped out of his naughty daydream when he heard the soft splash of water.  He glanced over, his brows raising ever so slightly when he saw her wiping along her arms and across her stomach with a wet washcloth.  His cheeks warmed when she turned her back to him and wiped the washcloth between her legs.  A thought struck him and quick as a flash, the blood drained from his face. 

 

He sat up in the bed, running his hands over his head as he looked at her, his mouth going dry.  The first two times, they’d been careful.  Last night, they’d been drunk on good wine and each other’s kisses.  It felt so much better when they found their release together, but the consequences of that pleasure could be severe.  She’d always said that she would never have children, and she still was going to be riding off to another war.  That was no kind of place for a woman with child.

 

“Arya, last night…” he said, his voice trailing off.  He cleared his throat, looking away.  He’d only ever thought about children in that he’d always tried to make sure he didn’t have them with the few girls who had come before.  If there was anyone who he’d want children with, it would be her, but only if she wanted. They were still at war, and they were young.  He wasn’t ready for children, and he doubted she ever would be.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll go to Maester Wulkin for Moon Tea later.  Though…” she trailed off, leaving the rag on the edge of the bucket.  She walked to her dresser, pulling out a shirt and pulling it on before her breeches followed. Gendry frowned as he looked at her, climbing out of the bed to pull on his own discarded trousers.

 

“Though what?” He pressed; his eyes still filled with worry.  Arya looked at him, the faintest hint of regret crossing her face before she turned away to tend to the dying fireplace.  She started building up the fire again, blowing on the last of the embers to light the tinder.  She sat back on her heels, feeding larger and larger sticks into the fire as it grew.  She didn’t look at him when she spoke, her gaze firm and fixed on the fire.

 

“Though I’m not sure I need it… I probably can’t have children.”  She said quietly, poking at the fire carefully, placing another log into the blaze.  Gendry frowned with concern before understanding flashed across his face.

 

“The Waif…”

 

“She stabbed me so many times, but not in the stomach, not really.  Ever since then, I haven’t had my moons blood.  I’ve been examined by two Maesters and a healer woman. Too much damage.” She said quietly, kneeling beside the fire, watching the flames.  She’d left the House of Black and White almost a year ago, and while stress or trauma could upset a woman’s body, it wasn’t usually for that long.  She’d never wanted children, in some ways this was a blessing, but she knew most men longed for a family.  Would her blacksmith leave when he realized a life with her would always be only them?

 

Gendry crossed the room, kneeling at the hearth beside her, reaching up to brush the hair out of her face gently.  She still didn’t look at him.  She knew he’d always dreamed of a family, maybe of a wife and kids someday, but when he looked at her in that moment, he knew.  As long as she was at his side, she would always be enough.  Even if their days were spent just the pair of them, he would be content. 

 

“You’re all the family I need…” he said softly, giving her a small smile when she turned to look at him.  Pain blinked across her face before she turned and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.  He returned the embrace as they kneeled by the fire, enjoying the combined warmth of her arms around him and the flames nearby.  She pulled back; her brows furrowed as she looked at him.

 

“You don’t care that I could never give you children?” she asked, her eyes scanning his face for any deception, but he’d never lie to her. He cracked a smile, leaning in to kiss her gently. 

 

“As long as I have you, my family is complete,” he said, pulling back to stand.  He offered his hand to her, and she curled her fingers through his, letting him help her stand.  Finally, a smile cracked over her face and she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist, pulling him close as she nuzzled her face into his bare chest.  He grinned, hugging her back happily before she jerked back, looking up at him.

 

“Oh, but what about Nymeria?” she asked, her voice playful as she leaned against him.  He smiled, leaning down to kiss her forehead gently.

 

“Okay, just you, me, and Nymeria.” He agreed, rubbing her back gently, nuzzling his nose into her soft brown hair.  She smiled closing her eyes as she squeezed him a little closer, burrowing her face into his chest.  He almost missed her whispered words, but they made his heart leap with joy.

 

“ _Our pack_...”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up for y'all, this is not going to be a 'babies ever after' or accidental pregnancy fic. Sometimes the body can heal from wounds like that, but this is not one of those times. I plan on giving these two a happy ending, but that ending doesn't end with babies.


	21. The Winds of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> War councils and secrets

 

-  Arya  -

 

 

It was with great reluctance that Arya had left her chambers.  Her head still ached slightly from the wine from the night before, and every day it grew harder to pull herself from the arms of her blacksmith.  It was a strange feeling, that subtle ache in her chest that she felt when she was away from him.  Mother had always said that she’d been pulled to father, and Arya felt that pull now.  She couldn’t imagine how much it must have made her mother ache to watch them all ride away to Kings Landing all those years ago.  She’d survived years without him, and eventually the ache had grown quiet.  Now he had returned, she wasn’t going to let herself be parted from him again.

 

He’d returned to the forge for the day, while a maid had informed her that the Queen and Jon wanted to speak to her in the war room.  She knew what conversation was coming.  The Dragon Queen grew more restless by the day in the North.  They would all be marching to war again soon. She had other business to attend to before the meeting.  Maester Wulkin hadn’t questioned her request for Moon Tea, he’d simply handed her the cup and bid her drink.  He’d examined her scars when she’d arrived at Winterfell, he knew as well as she that no life would take hold there, but he indulged her cautiousness.

 

Nymeria had spent the night sleeping beside Ghost in the great hall, but as Arya wove her way through the corridors of Winterfell, the great she-wolf found her.  Her fingers curled into the fur at the scruff of her neck out of instinct more than anything, they way she had as a girl when she had taken comfort in her wolf’s presence. Her face was a cool mask of stoicism when she pushed open the door to the war room. Jon, Sansa, and Daenerys stood around the table, surrounded by their advisors.

 

Jon hung close to his Queen; Sansa stood apart.  This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.  Arya took her place at the table, surveying the room.  She stood with Sansa to her left and Nymeria to her right, the direwolf providing a barrier between her girl and the Dragon Queen.  Arya didn’t speak, she only listened, and as the people in the room spoke, she felt her heart sinking.  

 

Daenerys was in a rush to ride south.  She wanted vengeance, and she wanted it immediately.  Sansa had tried to push for more time, for the men to be allowed to rest and heal, but she had been shot down.  The deep twist of anger that Arya felt when Jon sided with the Dragon Queen almost hurt.  He knew the men weren’t strong enough, he knew that they needed time to heal and mend armor and prepare.  He knew that sending wounded men into battle was as good as sending them to their deaths.  He knew, _and he did it anyway._   Suddenly Arya found it very difficult to recognize her older brother. 

 

It was decided, Jon and Ser Davos would ride down the Kingsroad with the Northmen and the majority of the remaining Dothraki and Unsullied.  A smaller group would ride to White Harbor, and then sail to Dragonstone with Daenerys riding on Drogon.  Rhaegal was too weak to carry Jon, at least until his wing healed.  Arya fixed her gaze on the Dragon Queen, watching her carefully.  She’d reserved passing judgement at first, to humor Jon, but something deep and wild and _wolf_ in the back of her mind whispered not to trust this woman.  There was death in her eyes. 

 

The council convened, but when Jon turned to leave the room, Arya stepped in front of him, fixing him with her gray gaze.  The door shut, and they were alone, the last four Stark children. 

 

“We need a word.”  They made their way to the Godswood.  It was the only place where the walls didn’t have ears.  Arya would know if there were spies, and the words that she and Sansa to say to him were too dangerous to speak inside the castle.  When they arrived before the weirwood tree, Jon turned to glower at his sisters.

 

“You understand we'd all be dead if not for her.  We'd be corpses marching down to King's Landing, all of us.”  He said, rubbing a hand over his face as he looked at them. 

 

“Arya's the one that killed the Night King.” Sansa said, frowning at her brother incredulously.  She was having just as difficult as time as Arya believing that her brother would so hastily toss the north aside for the whims of his queen.

 

“Her men gave their lives defending Winterfell” Jon argued back, scowling as Sansa interjected. “- And we will never forget them.” She snarled, her tone sharp and biting.  For the first time, Arya saw the wolf in her fair sister.  The flash of her teeth, the ice in her eyes, regarding their brother as a any she-wolf would a threat to her pack.  Jon sighed, shaking his head as he looked away from the pair of she-wolves.

 

“We needed her army, her dragons. I bent the knee because I had to” he said, pain flashing across his face.  He’d done what he’d thought was right before, and his brothers of the Nights Watch had killed him for it.  Now he’d done what he’d thought was right, and it had torn his family apart.  He bowed his head, though it jerked back up at Arya’s words.

 

“We know, you did the right thing…and we're doing the right thing telling you we don't trust your queen.” Arya said, frowning at Jon.  He scowled down at his boots, looking up to meet her steely gaze.  It had taken every ounce of calm counseling from her slew of advisors to get the Dragon Queen to agree _not_ to burn the entire city to ash.  For someone who claimed to be coming as a benevolent ruler, there was too much bloodlust in her gaze.

 

“You don't know her yet” He said, sighing as he looked at his sisters.  Why couldn’t they understand, he’d done it all for them, just to keep them alive. 

 

“I'll never know her…She's not one of us.” Arya said, shaking her head as she took a half step closer to the former King in the North.  He looked up to the sky, closing his eyes for a moment before opening his eyes and looking back to his dark-haired little sister.  That firm look of determination on her face never shifted as she stared him down.

 

“If you only trust the people you grew up with, you won't make many allies.” He chided, frowning as she shrugged, quirking one dark brow at him.

 

“That's all right, I don't need many allies.” She quipped back.  She had her pack.  She had Sansa and Jon and Gendry and Nymeria.  She didn’t need anyone else.  The Dragon Queen could burn in the seven hells for all she could care, just as long as she had her family. 

 

“Arya…”

 

“We're family, The four of us.  The last of the Starks.” She stepped forward once more, her eyes fierce as she stared at him.  He bowed his head, pain flashing across his eyes.  As Arya closed distance between them, he took a step back, curling his gloved hands into fists.  He wouldn’t meet her gaze, choosing to stare at the frozen pond.

 

“I've never been a Stark.” He said quietly, his gaze flickering to Bran for just a moment. He still couldn’t read anything from the youngest Stark’s face.  Bran just stared at him, blinking slowly.  Sansa let out an aggravated huff, stepping forward towards him.

 

“You are. You're just as much Ned Stark's child as any of us.”  She said, reaching out to touch his shoulder but pulling her hand back when she saw the pained look on Jon’s face.  She’d been cruel to him when they were children, never treated him like a brother.  She wanted to go back and change things, but the past was already written. 

 

“You're my brother.  Not my half-brother or my bastard brother.  My brother.” Arya said, a warm affection growing in her eyes as she looked at Jon.  He was making stupid decisions. Men did stupid things when they were in love.  Jon met her gaze briefly, but he looked away, uncomfortable under her eyes.  He looked back to Bran, who looked between them.

 

“It’s your choice” He said quietly.  Jon sighed, closing his eyes, his brows furrowing as he willed time to stop.  He didn’t want to have to face this.  When he told them, it became real.

 

“I need to tell you something…but you have to swear you'll never tell another soul.” He said, opening his eyes, his dark brown gaze flicking from gray to blue. 

 

I swear it.” Arya didn’t hesitate.  Whatever foolish choices he made in the council room, he was still her brother, and deep in her heart she trusted him. Sansa looked between Arya and Jon and sighed, nodding to her brother.

 

“I swear it.”  Her voice was much softer, not as confident as Arya’s had been. Jon took a deep breath, reaching up to push a loose strand of hair back from his face.  He felt like he was going to be sick. He looked at Bran, then back to Sansa and Arya.  His voice was quiet and cool, the words bitter in his mouth as he spoke them.  He wanted so badly for them to be false.  The truth tasted like ash.

 

“The war of the seven kings was built on a lie.  Rhaegar Targaryen didn’t kidnap Lyanna Stark or rape her.  They fell in love and ran away.  They were married in a secret ceremony. They had a son.”  For once, the two Stark sisters were mirrored in their response.  Both raised their brows, their lips parting slightly as they each sucked in a breath of cold air.  Jon looked away again, gripping the pommel of his sword.

 

“My name… My real name… is Aegon Targaryen.” Even the name felt unnatural in his mouth. It wasn’t his name.  It was someone else’s name.  The name of kings of days past.  He’d been Jon Snow all his life, and in just a few moments, the truth had torn everything he had built his life on to shreds.  He’d always been a bastard; he’d let it shape and define him for years. And now he was a prince.  Silence hung in the Godswood for what felt like an eternity before Sansa spoke ever so softly.

 

“You’re the heir to the iron throne.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, her blue eyes wide as she stared at her brother. _Cousin._ He was her cousin now.  He looked up to meet her gaze, pain written plainly across his features.  He’d never wanted this.  All he’d ever wanted was his family, and even that didn’t belong to him anymore.

 

“I’m not” he said, shaking his head.  He hadn’t wanted to be King in the North, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.  Sansa frowned, shaking her head at him, her brows furrowed now.  Her voice was louder now, insistent.  

 

“But you are,” she said, looking at him sadly.  He never wanted power, yet it all belonged to him.  Men had pledged their swords to him, not because he was born to be king, but because he _deserved_ to be.  He was good and kind, fair and just. Honorable.  He cared for every man, woman, and child under his protection.  To him, every life mattered, from nobleman to lowly beggar.  He didn’t have to state that he would be fair and just like Daenerys had to.  Anyone who knew Jon already knew that he was fair and just. 

 

“But I don’t want to be!” He almost shouted, his words ringing through the clearing.  Silence fell across the Godswood.  Arya stared at her big brother, her heart aching in her chest at the pain on his face.  He’d lost everything and gained only problems.  The woman he loved was his aunt.  His claim to the throne superseded hers, no matter how he insisted he didn’t want it, it couldn’t change reality.  His whole life had been a lie.  Even his family hadn’t been his family all along.

 

Arya stepped towards Jon, reaching out to pull him into a tight hug.  She closed her eyes as she pressed her face into the fur of his cloak, much the way she had when they’d first reunited under these very same branches.  She released her hold on him, looking up at him, a resigned sadness on her face.

 

“You’ll always be our brother Jon, _but you’re making a mistake_ ”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was particularly difficult to write because I disliked E4 so deeply. I'm trying to stick to the show somewhat with some serious adjustments, specifically around the fate of Arya and Gendry. Since we're still several days away from the final episode, I'm not 100% sure how I'm going to end this, but chapters might take me more than a day going forward as we draw towards the close. 
> 
> Thank you for your support and all your wonderful comments, every day your words keep me pushing on.


	22. Promise Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> They're running out of time again, and Arya makes the most of what is left.

 

-  Arya  -

 

 

She’d returned to her chambers for a time after their talk with Jon in the Godswood.  Nymeria had been napping on the bed when she arrived, opening one golden eye as her girl stepped into the room silently.  She let out a soft whine as she sniffed at the air.  Her girl smelled like a mixture of upset smells.  Arya sighed, reaching out to stroke Nymeria’s soft brown head gently.  The years between them had faded the instant Nymeria had licked her face the other night.  They’d both grown, but their love had never changed.  She kicked off her boots, climbing onto the bed and wrapping her arms around the direwolf, burying her face into Nymeria’s scruff. 

 

They’d be riding off to war in three days’ time.  Three more days to prepare.  Three more days to heal.  Three more days before she rode off to die.  She wished things could be different.  Things had finally started to click into place, but it was about to be cut short.  She returned home to a renewed love and caring between her and Sansa.  Nymeria had found her again after all those years.  Gendry had been the biggest surprise of all, and for a few sweet moments she’d tasted real happiness for the first time in years.    

 

She let out a sigh into Nymeria’s fur, stroking her hand along the direwolf’s broad side gently.  She pulled back, fondling one ear gently, Nymeria’s tail thumping happily against the bed.  If she only had three days, she wanted to make the most of them. She’d not had a proper bath since before the war for the dawn, and even though she’d wiped down, her skin was starting to feel a bit grimy.  A thought crossed her mind, a smile curling across her face. She’d heard Sansa mention that the hot springs hadn’t been damaged in the battle, and she longed for a good hot bath before she died. 

 

She gathered clean clothes, soap, and several sheets, leaving Nymeria to snooze on the bed as she headed from her room and into the deep places of the castle.  She grabbed a torch from one of the sconces on the wall, following the dim light down to the pools of hot springs and swirled underneath the castle.  The ancient Starks had used these pools to bathe in regularly, but it had fallen out of practice in recent years.  The braziers still held enough oil to light the room with only two, casting a golden glow over the largest of the pools. 

 

She laid the soap, setting her clothes further away with the sheets.  She wove her way back out of the underground, leaving the torch by the entrance as she headed towards the smithy.  She could hear the rhythmic pounding of his hammer on the steel long before she saw him.  She lingered in the shadows, gaze raking over him appreciatively as she watched him pound out the edge of the red-hot metal.  She would never get tired of watching him work in the forge. 

 

She took a couple steps forward, leaning against one of the pillars of the forge, gray eyes trained on her blacksmith.  Gendry hesitated slightly, lowering his hammer as he looked up to meet her gaze.  The last time she’d shown up in his forge like this, she had been demanding to know where her weapon was, her gaze challenging and cool.  Now her gray eyes were warm and affectionate as she looked at him from across the foundry.  The small smile that settled on her lips made his heart race.  He would have blushed had his face not already been red from the heat of the forge. 

 

She crossed the distance between them, taking confident steps across the forge before wrapping one hand around the back of his neck, leaning up on her toes to kiss him.  She didn’t care if the other smiths saw.  She wanted to kiss him, and so she did.  She pulled back, turning and hopping up onto his workbench, crossing her legs as she leaned forward.

 

“How much longer on that blade?” she asked, nodding towards the cooling metal grasped in his tongs.  He cursed under his breath as he remembered the steel, lifting it to quench it in the bucket of water before turning to shove the blade back into the heat of the forge. 

 

“Still needs a few more rounds of hammering, then needs to cool before it can be sharpened,” he said, wiping his forehead on his leather gauntlet.  She looked at him, tilting her head to the side.

 

“Can I watch you finish it?” she asked, flashing him a playful smile.  He rolled his eyes, but he nodded.

 

“Just so long as you don’t distract me,” he teased, chuckling softly.  He knew he was going to be distracted just with her presence, but he didn’t really mind too much.  He turned back to the forge, checking on the blade.  A few moments more, and he reached in with the tongs, grasping the red-hot blade.  He pressed it to the anvil, bringing it down over and over on the steel.  All the while, he could feel her eyes on him.  The sensation made his heart race a little faster as he found himself looking up to catch her gray gaze. 

 

He quenched the steel again, shoving the sword back into the forge, setting his hammer on the workbench.  He looked back to Arya, his mouth going dry at the way she looked at him.  she looked at him as though she wanted to reach for him and pull him to her.  He could feel the longing in her gaze.  His feet carried him unbidden across his workspace, and he found himself standing between her knees once more. 

 

She smiled down at him, eyes closing slightly as she draped her arms around his neck and leaned down to kiss him gently.  His hands found her waist as he leaned into her touch.  It wasn’t hungry and needy like the night before; it was sweet and tender in a way that he’d only felt from her on the night before the war for the dawn.  As though each kiss might be their last, and so it needed to convey every ounce of her love for him. 

 

He broke the kiss reluctantly, pulling away to tend to the blade again.  Thrice more he hammered, quenched, and returned the blade to the forge, returning to Arya’s embrace each time the metal took its time to heat.  She was definitely distracting him, but he found he didn’t really mind. He quenched the blade one final time before he set it aside on his workbench.  he would sharpen it later, but it was done for now.  It needed to cool, the steel needed to rest, and so did he.  He’d recovered some since the battle, but his wounds were still healing, and he found himself tiring more easily than before. 

 

“Go get some clean clothes… Shirt, trousers, socks, tunic, everything.” She commanded, sliding off the worktable gracefully, her feet making no sound on the gravel ground of the forge as she touched down. He tilted his head to the side questioningly, raising a brow at her.  She smiled, mischief flashing in her gaze.  She could very well guarantee that he’d never bathed in hot springs before.

 

“We’re going to have a proper bath, in the hot springs beneath the castle,” she said softly, grinning up at him.  His brows raised in surprise, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an amused smile.  He’d definitely never bathed in hot springs before.  She trailed after him as he gathered the last of his clean things from his old chambers.  He looked around the small room behind the forge.  He’d so quickly come to call this place home, and yet he no longer felt like he belonged there.  He belonged beside Arya. 

 

She curled her fingers through his as she led him, to the tunnels under the castle.  His sharp inhale echoed around the room as he took in the sight of the hot springs.  He laid his bundle of clean clothes down next to hers, his blue eyes wide as he looked around the room in wonder.  Steam filled the air, and it was warmer down here than he had felt since he’d left kings landing.  He felt his face warm again when she started undressing.  He’d seen her completely now, and still the sight of her stripping off her clothing never failed to make his heart race and his breath catch in his throat. 

 

Arya left her dirty things in their own pile, sitting down on the edge of the pool, sticking in her legs before she slid into the water.  The Starks of old had taken the time to carve into the pool, creating an edge one could sit on so that the water came up to your neck.  The hot water soothed the aching bruises that dotted her body, relaxing her muscles after such a hard fought battle.  Gendry joined her quickly, making a surprised sound when he dipped his foot into the water.  It was hotter than he had expected, but he climbed in anyway, letting out a slow groan as he sunk in up to his neck.

 

He’d had a warm bath once or twice before, but this was something else entirely.  He was wrapped in warmth that soaked into his aching body.  Arya smiled at his reaction, watching as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the edge of the pool, basking in the warmth.  She knew he found the north to be cold, and there was no better way to get warm than in the hot springs.  She closed her own eyes, dunking under the hot water, wetting her hair.  She surfaced, leaning over the edge to grab the soap, dipping it in the water and starting to lather the bar between her hands.  Once she had a good handful of suds, she set the soap back on the stone and started to work the soap into her hair.  They’d rinsed the day after the battle, but nothing beat a real scrub. 

 

She dunked again to rinse her hair, surfacing to see Gendry had followed her lead.  He was working soapy hands over his short hair and down his neck, his eyes partially closed as he bathed.  He was usually covered in at least a thin layer of soot; it was nice to get to see the true shade of his skin again.  She closed the space between them, taking him by the shoulders and turning him away from her.  She grabbed the soap and a washcloth, soaping the fabric before she started to wash along his shoulders and the back of his neck.  He sighed softly, closing his eyes and tipping his head forward as he let her scrub across his shoulders and the top of his back. 

 

They took turns with the cloth, scrubbing along each other’s arms.  Gendry had grinned when he’d lifted her foot to scrub between her toes, only to discover that his she-wolf was very ticklish. The moment the cloth had brushed the bottom of her foot, she had howled in protest, laughing and pleading for him to stop.  He had obliged, but only after one more swipe of the cloth to watch her squirm. 

 

When they had washed away every trace of sweat and grime, Gendry found himself settling back against the wall of the pool, resting his head against the edge.  Arya crossed to pool to reach him, leaning in to kiss him tenderly.  He was so relaxed, he barely had time to be surprised when she settled herself into his lap, pressing her back against his chest, leaning her head back against his shoulder.  He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her cheekbone as she reached for his hands and wrapped his arms around her. 

 

They reclined in silence for some time, the only sounds the soft bubbling of the spring as they enjoyed the warmth and the moment of stillness.  It was Arya who broke the silence, bringing them both back to reality.

 

“We’re riding south soon” She said quietly.  She felt him breath out a sigh against her neck, closing her eyes as she leaned into the feeling.  She wanted to stay here with him forever. 

 

“When?”

 

“Three days…”  They’d dealt with a bigger time constraint before, when the army of the dead had been on their doorstep.  Still, three days would never be enough time with him.  She heard him sort softly feeling him smile against her skin as he pressed a warm kiss to her neck.

 

“Just enough time for me to make you a new weapon” He murmured against her skin, his arms tightening around her slightly, fingers caressing across her stomach gently under the water.  Had she not been so hot from the spring, she would have flushed at his words, but she just huffed softly.

 

“Needle will be just fine.” She insisted, closing her eyes as she leaned her head back against his shoulder, just wanting to enjoy the feeling of his lips on her skin.  She let out a sigh as he spoke again, his lips brushing against her neck with each word. 

 

“Would it be wrong of me to want you wielding a blade I forged for you?  I’m not sure I can trust anyone else’s steel to keep you safe.” There was a warm possessive edge in his voice that she hadn’t heard before, but it made her feel warm deep in her stomach.  She felt that same possessive calling about him, and it pleased her to hear it in his voice now.  A rush of sadness filled her, and she opened her eyes, leaning forward and pulling out of his grasp.  She turned, climbing back into his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she leaned in to kiss him deeply. She pulled back, her gaze sad as she met his blue eyes with her gray. 

 

“When we attack the city, I’m going to be going to the Red Keep.  I’m going to kill Cersei or die trying.”  She saw the pain that flashed through his eyes at her words.  His arms curled around her waist, pulling her closer against his chest, as though he was already afraid of losing her.  She hated to see that look on his face, and knowing her words caused it made the sting even sharper. 

 

“Arya...” his voice was quiet and pleading, and it tore at her heart, but she shook her head.  She slid one hand back from his shoulders to caress his cheek gently.  All she wanted was to never leave his arms, but there would be no rest for her until the list was complete. 

 

“I need to finish my list… I can’t move on until I do…” She wanted to end that part of her life.  She didn’t want to need to be No One anymore.  All she wanted was to be a wolf, chasing a stag for the rest of her days.  It pained her when his blue eyes turned sad and he looked down, his mouth formed into a hard line as his jaw clenched. 

 

“…I know…” He whispered the words, as though saying them quietly would make them any less true.  He knew she had to finish what she had started all those years ago.  He could never hope to stop her, and he knew she would never find rest until gave those last three names to her God of Death. Her gaze grew hard and serious as she looked at him, cupping his face and bringing his face back up to make him meet her eyes. 

 

“Gendry, I want you to make me a promise,” she said, her thumb caressing his cheek gently.  He frowned. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like this.  She looked away and down, trying to hide the tears that had started to burn in her eyes. 

 

“I want you to promise me, if the battle turns… If it seems like things are lost… promise me, you’ll run.  Get out of the city and keep yourself safe.”  Her voice cracked slightly with emotion as she spoke, and he saw her lip tremble slightly.  He shook his head, his eyes turning dark and sad.

 

“Arya, please… I couldn’t leave you behind there…” he begged, shaking his head as he felt tears starting to prick at his eyes.  How could she ask him to leave her behind?  They’d been parted before, how could she expect him not to try to fight his way to her if that’s what it took?

 

“You have to… I’ll be miles away in the Red Keep, you’ll be at the entrance to the city with Jon.  If things go bad, you get out.”  She gripped his face in her hands, a tear rolling down her cheek as she looked at him.  Even if she didn’t make it out alive, she didn’t want him to die in that terrible city.  Her fate stood on the edge of a coin.  Live or die. He didn’t have to go rushing into battle, he was doing it out of loyalty to her and to Jon. She caressed his face gently, leaning in to kiss him deeply, leaning her forehead against his. 

 

“If I make it out alive, trust me that I’ll find my way back to you.  _I promise_.” She said, closing her eyes, feeling him shudder as a silent sob wracked his shoulders.  Her own lip trembled, holding him close as they clung together in the darkness. 

 

“I promise…” he whispered, closing his eyes as tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he hugged her to his chest.  It seemed the gods loved to punish them.  They’d been together and parted, only to find each other again at the edge of the world.  They’d faced their deaths and come out alive, only to have to face them again days later. Their bodies still bore the wounds of their last fight, and they’d ride off to war in three days’ time.  Hadn’t they endured enough to make it this far?  Arya sighed, pulling back and reaching up gently to wipe the tears off Gendry’s face, leaning into his touch when he did the same.

 

She leaned in to kiss him again, silence falling between them as they pulled apart. They climbed from the tub, drying themselves with the sheets Arya brought, pulling on their clean clothes before wrapping their dirty ones in the sheets.  They each tucked them under an arm, walking side by side from the hot springs in silence.  As they walked, Gendry reached out and curled his hand around Arya’s, pulling a sad smile to her lips.  They had three days.  She wanted to make the most of it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooookay, so I know I said my posting speed might be slowing down, but I just had to write something less political and tense after the last chapter, so I finished this off this morning.


	23. As You Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Arya askes about Gendry's life after Dragonstone

-  Gendry  -

 

 

Gendry had never felt so clean in his life.  He’d thought he’d known what a good bath was like, but the hot springs had been something special.  It had eased the aches in his body, soothing the bruises and strains that remained from the battle.  He wished he’d known about them before, he would have liked to visit more often.  Why the rest of the Stark family didn’t use the hot springs daily, he didn’t know.  Now with the grime stripped from his skin, he was surprised at the quantity of scars he bore.  His hands and arms were flecked with small burns, and some of the cuts from the battle were thin pink lines now.  Too late to start wearing gloves now though. 

 

The sun hung low in the sky now.  He’d spent all day in the forge, and then almost two hours in the hot springs with Arya.  They stopped by the kitchens for a quick bowl of stew each before weaving through the halls and back to Arya’s quarters.  He couldn’t help but chuckle when he took in the sight before him. Nymeria was stretched out on the bed, her tail starting to thump against the covers as Arya stepped into the room.  It seemed Nymeria was enjoying the perks of being a house pet again, which included soft beds and scratches behind the ears. 

 

He’d happily collapsed into their bed beside Arya’s lounging direwolf.   Nymeria lifted her head when the smith flopped down beside her.  The wolf stood up, turning around a couple times before settling back down a little closer to the blacksmith.  Gendry let out a soft _oof_ when the direwolf dropped her head to rest it on his stomach, the weight almost knocking the wind out of him.  Arya chuckled softly, watching as her blacksmith reached up to scratch behind Nymeria’s ears gently.  His hands didn’t tremble this time.  He didn’t even look at the wolf to gauge her reaction, his fingers just curled into the soft fur, scratching there gently. 

 

Nymeria had always been one of the wilder of the Stark wolves.  Grey Wind, Ghost, Lady, and Summer had obeyed all the Stark children, as well as their father.  Nymeria and Shaggy Dog had been more selective with their masters.  Nymeria had obeyed Arya, Jon, and their father, and Shaggy Dog had obeyed only Rickon and Lord Eddard.  Very few got to touch the wolves, and even fewer got to pet them, but here they were.  Nymeria let out a happy whine as she tilted her head into the scratches, a smile settling over Gendry’s face as his eyes closed. 

 

Gendry could hear Arya stoking the fire as he scratched gently behind Nymeria’s ear.  He’d been so startled by the wolf even the day before, but he’d quickly become used to her presence.  The wolf was long past her years as a pup, and yet she went from protective alpha to playful in moments when they were alone.  He’d seen the way the direwolf stood by her girl, and he wanted nothing more than to do the same thing.  They both wanted to protect Arya Stark, even though she hardly needed it. 

 

He was jerked from his repose when he felt Arya tugging the furs out from under him, sitting up, much to Nymeria’s displeasure.  He shifted his position, sliding under the blankets and settling his head down into the pillow.  The feather bed felt even more comfortable now that the hot springs had worked some of the ache from his muscles.  He smiled when Arya climbed into the bed beside him, tucking herself against his side, one of her legs curling around his. He wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

“What happened after the brotherhood sold you to the red witch?”  He was surprised at her question.  She hadn’t pried into their time apart before.  He’d listened to every moment of her story of her time in Essos with rapt attention, but he’d always felt that she didn’t really want to know what had happened to him after they parted.  She was asking now though.

 

“We’ll you know about the first part. Afterwards, they threw me into the dungeons under Dragonstone.  I met Ser Davos while I was there.” He felt her breath huff across his chest angrily, her fingers curling and uncurling against the fabric of his shirt as she rubbed her cheek against his chest.  She didn’t like the thought of him in a cold cell on some miserable island.

 

“I like the Onion Knight.  He’s kind.” She mused quietly, starting to trail her fingers in slow circles along Gendry’s chest as they laid in the gathering darkness.  He let his eyes close most of the way, leaning his cheek against the top of her head.  He curled his arm around her just a little more under the blankets, tucking her closer into his chest gently. 

 

“Yes, he is.  When he found out that Stannis and the red woman meant to sacrifice me for another spell, he snuck me out of my cell in the night.  He put me in a rowboat on the edge of Dragonstone, gave me a push and told me to start rowing.” He still remembered that night, the way Davos had jolted him awake, only to lead him out onto a darkening beach.  It had terrified him, to know that he’d come so close to his death.  Not quite as much as it had terrified him to be shoved out to sea in a rowboat though.  He felt Arya shudder against his chest, looking down with concern before he realized she was stifling laughter.

 

“Start rowing?” She japed, letting out a soft giggle, a smile spread across her face as she imagined him alone in a tiny boat rowing his way away from certain death.  He rolled his eyes, his hand squeezing her hip playfully as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

 

“I’m not sure how long I was rowing, it was at least a week, maybe more.  When I finally reached ground, I was back on the shores of Kings Landing.” He said quietly, started to rub his hand up and down Arya’s side gently, feeling her melt slightly under his touch, her body relaxing into his as he watched her gray eyes slide closed.  He felt it was a privilege to see her relax this way.  She was always so guarded and tuned when they were around others, and he was deeply pleased that she felt safe enough with him to close her eyes and let the problems of the world fall away.

 

“Where did you go?” Her words were quiet, and she didn’t open her eyes.  She just continued trailing slow circles on his chest with her fingers, enjoying his embrace and the gentle warmth of his hand caressing along her side. 

 

“Back to Tolbo Mott’s shop on the street of steel.  He’d retired, the landlord needed someone to work the steel, and it came with a small room.”  It was the only place he’d known to go when he returned to the city.  The knowledge of his parentage hadn’t changed the fact that the only home he’d ever known was the tiny room at the back of a forge.  His mother had died when he was so little, and he could barely remember a time when he _wasn’t_ Master Mott’s apprentice.  When he’d come back exhausted and broke, he stumbled his way back to the street of steel to collapse in the corner of the cold forge to sleep.  When he’d woke, he’d gone to the landlord and promised him steel in return for a room and some materials.  It had just been luck the landlord had recognized him and remembered his work. 

 

“So, you spent the last three years in Kings Landing?” Arya asked, opening her gray eyes to look up at him.  After all he’d suffered, he’d ended up right back where he’d started, alone again.

 

“Forging steel for the Lannisters, right under their noses.” His voice was humorless and sharp, a sound she wasn’t used to from him. Every sword that he’d forged and sold to a man in Lannister armor had taken just a little bit more of his dignity at first.  Eventually he’d tried to stop caring that his blades were keeping the soldiers of his enemies safe. 

 

“Why did you leave?” Her question snapped him back to the moment and his voice softened once more.

 

“Ser Davos came to find me.  He wanted me to come fight with them in the North against the dead.”  Everything had changed the Onion Knight had walked into his shop.  He’d been looking for a reason to leave, and when it walked through his door, he’d leapt at the chance to take it.

 

“And you did” it wasn’t a question, just a fact.  They’d both come north to fight the dead. Sometimes he still had to remind himself that they won.

 

“Once I heard that Jon Snow was King in the North, I had to go.” Arya turned her head, looking up at him with a confused expression on her face.  He sighed, looking away from her and up at the ceiling.  He’d rationalized it in his head, leaving the capitol to head north to his inevitable death.  A tiny part of him had _wanted_ to die, just so he could have joined her in the afterlife.  He was very glad now that he’d managed to live through it all, but it didn’t make the next words any less painful. 

 

“I…I thought you were dead.  I guess… I figured if I couldn’t follow you back to Winterfell, I’d follow your favorite brother.  Try to make up for failing to protect you before.” His voice was low and thick with regret.  He didn’t meet her gaze, but he could feel her eyes on his face as she pulled out of his embrace slightly, sitting up halfway to look down at him. 

 

“Gendry… We were children…” the soft sadness in her voice made his chest ache, and he turned to look at her finally.  There was no anger in her eyes for him anymore.  _She had forgiven him_.  He tore his gaze away, looking back up at the ceiling. 

 

“I still failed you.  We were already family when you asked me to come with you to Winterfell, I… I was just scared.  I was scared that I’d follow you back to your home, and things would change”  He heard her let out a sigh, relief filling him as she laid back down at his side, rubbing her cheek against his chest lightly as she settled back into his arms.  Her eyes had been too much for him to bear.  He still didn’t feel like he deserved that forgiveness.

 

“…I know.” She whispered.  How could she tell him anything contrary when she knew it would have been true?  Her brother would have used him to smith, but her mother would never have approved of their friendship.  She would have forced them apart.  She really would have had to be his Lady. 

 

“I regretted saying no to you every day after… I missed you so much…” He’d nearly gone mad the first year living in Kings Landing again.  Every short girl with brown hair had worn her face.  every pair of gray eyes had reminded him of her.  He’d spent countless hours in the forge, pounding at steel to try to get the image of her face out of his mind.  It had taken so long to bury her in his heart after he’d thought she’d been killed, even after two years he still found himself flinching at a Northern accent 

 

“I missed you too… but if you hadn’t been taken, if we’d made it to the Twins…” Her voice trailed off.  They both knew what had happened at the twins.  They’d both be dead, and things would be very different in the world.

 

“Things happened the way they were supposed to.  I needed to have nothing left before I could leave Westeros. If I hadn’t trained at the House of Black and White, I never would have been able to kill the Night King” Arya stated it so matter-of-factly that Gendry just resigned himself to a soft sigh.  He had a feeling she was right.  Jon or Daenerys would never have been able to get close enough to do it.  There was no one else in the Seven Kingdoms with her skills.  Arya Stark had needed to become an assassin to save them all.  He knew it to be true, but at the same time, he couldn’t let all that pre-destined power go to her head. 

 

“Oh, so it’s my fault then?” He teased her, squeezing her in closer to his chest, raising a brow at her much the same way she did to him.  She scowled up at him, but her eyes held no malice, only mischief.  She smacked him on the chest, as was to be expected, rolling her eyes when he winced with mock hurt.

 

“Stupid bull, you know it’s not” She grumbled, shifting her position beside him so that she could lean up and kiss him, curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt.  She pulled back, looking down at him, hair falling into her face since she had neglected to tie it back or braid it after their bath.  She fixed him with her gray eyes, tilting her head to the side as she studied him, her brow furrowing ever so slightly.

 

“So… you came north to follow my brother… so much for not serving” She quirked a brow at him, and her blacksmith sighed.  He always knew he was going to get shit for this one.  He didn’t mind her teasing, it reminded him of when they’d just been kids, and she’d loved to shove him into the dirt for calling her ‘ _Milady_ ’.  She’d probably tease him about this for the rest of their days, however many they had left.

 

“I know, I know… better your brother than the Lannisters though” He countered, watching the furrow in her brow relax as she sighed, accepting his answer. 

 

“Very true…” Silence fell between them as Arya settled back down beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, one arm draped lazily across his chest.  He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing, warm puffs of air brushing across his skin where his shirt opened.  He let out a soft yawn, tugging the furs up to cover her shoulders and keep them warm through the night.  He definitely had to admin, sleeping between a Stark and a direwolf had its perks, he’d never felt as warm in another bed since the summertime in Kings Landing.  His thoughts had started to drift and his eyes had been slipping closed when her words finally broke the quiet of the room.  

 

“You know… if you did want to make me a new weapon… I don’t think I’d mind too much,” he heard her say quietly.  He smiled, kissing her forehead and closing his eyes, sleep threatening to wash over him.  

 

“As you wish, Milady.”

 

 

 


	24. A Weapon for a Warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Our favorite blacksmith spends some quality time with his first love: his hammer ;P

-  Gendry  -

 

 

Gendry had been rather pleased when Arya had acquiesced to him making her a new weapon.  Truth be told, he had started working on it shortly after he’d returned to the forge after the battle, but only in between other tasks.  He hadn’t been sure she’d wanted something new, and at first, he’d been unable to decide what it was he wanted to make.  He’d settled on another sword, similar in length to Needle, but slightly different.

 

Needle had been made for a girl, when her arms had lacked strength and her hands had been tiny.  Her hands were still small, but she had the strength now to handle a heavier blade, and a slightly heavier blade would allow her to strike with added damage.  Needle was good for quick tiny cuts and small holes, but it would be hard to fight men wearing full plate armor.  She might be able to slip the blade between plates to make a strike, but there was no way her sword would pierce armor.

 

He’d started with the blade, pounding out the steel with care as he’d shaped it.  His recent work had been rushed; blades just refined enough to function against the oncoming dead.  It had been a while since he’d had time to really devote to a single piece, and he treasured every moment.  He’d tempered and hammered and tempered again until the steel had shone so clear that he could see his face reflected in the thin but flat edge of the blade. He’d polished it carefully, sharpening it until it sliced through leather with ease.  The blade was the easy part, the labor came in the details.

 

He'd spent a good while trying to decide what kind of material he wanted to use for the pommel and grip.  Needle had leather, many had wood that was wrapped with leather strips, some trusted their gloves to keep a grip on steel alone, or they used finely carved wood.  Some were even made of bone.  He finally settled on dark walnut for the pommel and soft leather for the grip. The guard would be darkened steel, and he would use black leather to compliment the steel. 

 

He spent most of the second day carving.  He’d spent a lot of time with Jon, and the former King in the North had always been indulging of Gendry’s fascination with Longclaw.  It wasn’t every day he got to handle a Valyrian steel sword.  He’d studied every inch, from the blade to the pommel.  It had been carved into the head of a white wolf with red garnet eyes, and he’d envisioned something similar for Arya’s sword.

 

Only when his fingers had been sore, and his back had started aching from hunching over had he returned to working the steel as usual.  On the third day, he finished the pommel.  He’d used two small glittering pieces of dragonglass for the eyes, and by midmorning, the calm visage of Nymeria stared back at him from inside the wooden carving. He’d always liked the details.  He’d spent months on his bull helmet when he had been a teenager, smoothing and shaping the metal until it was perfect.  If he’d had the time, he would have spent weeks, not days, on this piece, but time was a luxury he didn’t have any more. 

 

For once, he was in-between pieces when Arya arrived in the forge.  He was leaning up against his workbench, drinking water out of a wineskin when she appeared at his side.  He still couldn’t get used to her sneaking up on him, but he smiled anyway.  She held a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread in her hands, much as she had the day before when she had visited him in the forge. There were no smiles on her face anymore though, her brow was drawn into a slightly furrowed line. 

 

“I’ll never get used to you just appearing out of nowhere… one day you’re going to surprise me and I’m going to drop my hammer on my boot and break a toe,” he teased her playfully, though the smile on his face flickered when she didn’t reciprocate his mirth.  In the last few days, he’d always been able to make her smile, at least a little.  Even his bad jokes couldn’t elicit a smile from her, the morning must have been an unpleasant one.

 

She handed him the stew wordlessly, turning to hop up on the bench like she had so often taken to doing.  She just scowled in the direction of the forge, but her gray eyes weren’t even looking at the flames.  She was lost somewhere else.  Gendry placed the bowl down on the workbench, reaching out to rest his hand on her arm gently.  His touch snapped her back to reality, and finally she looked at him.  Her eyes were dark and angry, and he could see just the smallest hint of sadness lurking behind her gaze.

 

“We’re going to lose.”

 

“Oh, come on, Daenerys has two dragons, she’s not going to lose” he quipped back, rolling his eyes as he picked up the bowl of stew, taking a few large bites.  Every day he worked the forge, and every day he forgot how hungry he was until she turned up with food in hand.  He’d been used to going hungry when he was living in Kings Landing and skint broke.  Now he’d been spoiled by three hot meals a day, especially the ones hand delivered to the forge by Arya.

 

“No… She’s not.  But we will…”  He furrowed his brows at her words, chewing a hunk of potato and swallowing before looking back at her.  Sometimes the things Arya said didn’t quite make sense.  She was a smart, educated Lady, sometimes her meanings went over his head. 

 

“I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head slightly as he continued to eat.  Arya sighed, looking down at her hands, fiddling with her gloves as she scowled down at her fingers. 

 

“Our armies are weakened and tired, yet we’re still marching south in two days.  Rhaegal’s wings are torn, Drogon was injured by the wights, and we lost our forces by half.  But she’s pushing us into another war before we’re ready.  We’re all going to die so that she can have her vengeance” She’d been in on the war councils.  She’d discussed with Sansa how much food they had left, how many fighting men, how many swords, how many horses.  The numbers were bad.  Sure, they could feed the men, but not clothe, arm, and properly mount them.  Winterfell stood in ruins, it would take time and effort to rebuild, and undoubtably it would never be the same

 

“Arya, she’s our Queen,” he said quietly.

 

“She’s making poor choices that will cost us all our lives,” Arya growled, her eyes turning steely and sharp as she scowled at the ground.  She’d come to grips with her death years ago.  She’d fought for her life, but death had always been a possibility.  Why was it that death had to come for her when she finally had something to live for?

 

“And what if we don’t die?” he asked softly. The way she just continued to stare at the ground and wouldn’t meet his eyes worried him.  Even before the battle for the dawn, she’d been composed.  Now she was worried, and she never worried.

 

“If we don’t die… then we must live with knowing that we handed the realm from one tyrant to another.” Her words were quiet and sad.  She’d seen something in the Dragon Queen that most missed.  She had seen the fire and blood.  She had seen that rage under the calm mask that the silver haired woman always wore.  She spoke about breaking the wheel, but she would crush those who opposed her, as every ruler had done for a thousand years.  Gendry swallowed the mouthful of stew he’d been chewing, trying to read Arya’s face and failing.

 

“Queen Daenerys promised…” He wanted to believe, so badly.  He wanted to believe that things would be different under this new queen.  Things could finally change for the better if they tried, couldn’t they?

 

“I’ve seen the look in her eyes Gendry.  I know that look, I’ve felt that same way.  Angry and violent and longing to bring death to those who had wronged me. It was all her advisors could do to convince her not to burn Kings Landing to the ground.”  Arya looked up at him sharply, gray eyes meeting blue. Her words were dangerous.  He knew how ruthless Daenerys could be.  He knew how she’d burned the Tarlys.  He’d heard stories of what she’d done to the Masters of Yunkai and Meereen. Suddenly Arya’s concern didn’t strike him as out of place, now that he gave it some thought. 

 

“Your promise?” her words tugged at his heart as she reminded him of the promise he’d made to her the day before. He’d wondered before why she’d made him promise such a thing, but now he understood.  She was worried things were going to go wrong, that Daenerys was going to go back on her word to spare the city.  He was going to be trying to breach those walls along with Jon and the rest of the army.  If Daenerys burned Kings Landing, he’d be just as likely to get caught in the blaze as enemy soldiers.

 

“If the battle turns, get out of the city,” he echoed back to her, a grim look settling over his face. 

 

“If she changes her mind, if she decides to embrace everything dark and hungry in her eyes like I know she wants to…” Her gray eyes were pleading as they bored into his own.  She was just as scared to lose him as he was to lose her.  He sighed, bowing his head and tearing his eyes away from hers.

 

“I know. Get out.”  The idea of leaving her behind in that horrible city was painful. She’d have miles to go and hundreds of soldiers to get past before she’d be able to get outside the walls.  He knew that trying to search for her in a city that large would be a fruitless and painful task that he’d never survive, not if the battle did turn.

 

“Can I stay and watch you work again?” Her question was quiet, and for a moment Gendry thought she almost sounded unsure of herself.  He smiled just a little bit, setting down the empty bowl before reaching out to take one of her gloved hands in his own. He liked it when she watched him work. 

 

“Only if you make me a promise…” he said, squeezing her hand gently.  She looked up at him with those gray eyes he loved so much, sadness lingering on her face.  He hated to see her sad.  He resolved to make her smile.  He stepped closer, leaning up to cup her cheek gently as he kissed her.  He kissed her the way he’d done after they’d found each other after the battle for the dawn.  It was lingering and tender, and when they broke apart, she leaned her forehead against his.  He smirked ever so slightly, his tone turning playful.

 

“Don’t die” He said softly, meaning it completely, but knowing she’d recognize the very same order she’d given him on the eve of the endless night.  He couldn’t help but grin when a smile cracked over her face and she chuckled.  She pulled back, shaking her head and reaching out to punch him playfully in the shoulder.

 

“Stupid bull… I’ll try not to” She said, giving him another quick kiss before shooing him back towards the forge.  He furrowed his brows, giving her a confused look. Lately she’d been pulling him closer, not pushing him away.  She rolled her eyes, smirking at him.

 

“Now go beat your hammer against something… you know I like to watch…” She teased, winking at him playfully. He felt his cheeks warm at her words, shaking his head.

 

“As you wish, Milady,” he teased back, stealing one more kiss from her lips before he turned to walk back to the forge.  He wanted her new weapon to be a surprise, so he grabbed a fresh piece of steel and shoved it into the coals of the forge.  They didn’t speak as he worked, but he could feel her eyes on him always.  When he paused to catch his breath or sip at water, he’d catch her eyes.  His heart would leap every time gray met blue and a smile would settle across her face. 

 

He worked until the sun set and the castle was plunged into darkness.  As night gathered around them, he found himself starting to shiver when he moved too far from the forge, even so far as to hammer the blade he was working.  He quenched the half-finished blade, turning back to the forge to drive it into the coals when a gloved hand reached out to grab his wrist. 

 

“You’re getting cold, maybe its time to stop for the night,” she said, looking up at him.  He shivered even then as he paused too far away from the flames of the forge.  It was going to be a bitterly cold night; the sun had just set and already it was seeping into his bones.  He nodded, setting the half-worked blade on his workbench.  Before he had a chance to take a step, she had moved in front of him and wrapped his own cloak around his shoulders, her nimble fingers fastening it across his chest.  He sometimes forgot that she was a trained assassin until she moved so fast that he barely noticed. 

 

She reached out, threading her fingers through his as she led him from the forge.  He didn’t protest anymore.  If she wanted people to see, let them see.  They had two days before they rode off to war.  Two more days to make it count.  He wasn’t going to waste time refusing to hold the hand of the woman that he loved.

 

 


	25. The Halls of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> Arya finds it more difficult to become No One.

-  Arya  -

 

 

Ever since she’d killed the night king, it had become much more difficult to move around the castle without being noticed.  At first, she’d been just another girl moving about among the servants, but now when she entered a room, eyes turned towards her.  With only two days left before they rode to war, she needed to gather as much information as possible before she ran out of time.  She was invited to most war councils, but not all decisions were made at the war councils.  Once more she’d donned one of her faces, though each time was a little more difficult than the last.  She was becoming more Arya Stark, less No One, and the faces worked best for No One.  She was someone again.

 

She didn’t use the pretty young serving girl this time.  She didn’t want to be noticed, and that face came with an impressive figure that tended to pull male attention.  That face was good for when she needed to flirt for information, now she just needed to fade into the background.  The woman’s face that she’d chosen was a plain one.  The woman was older, lines formed in the corners of her eyes and the edges of her lips.  She had spent many years laughing to have those kinds of lines.  She had warm brown eyes and waist length hair that was streaked with gray.  People didn’t pay this face any mind.

 

She dressed plainly but warmly, moving through the halls of Winterfell carrying a basket of clean linens, dipping in and out of rooms but never changing the sheets.  She’d watched as Sansa had swept through the halls, speaking with everyone of any importance.  She kept track of provisions, managed the repairs that had already started on the castle, and listened with rapt attention to any issues that arose.  The red she-wolf had certainly come into her own power.  She ran the castle as though she had been born to do it, and truly she had been.  Sansa had always wanted to be the lady of a great holdfast.  It just so happened that this holdfast didn’t include a husband.  Sansa ruled alone. 

 

When the redhead turned towards the battlements, Arya put down her basket of laundry and picked up a stiff broom, following her Lady sister out onto the rampart.  She began to sweep the fresh snow off the walk, shoving it up against the sides so that it wouldn’t ice as people walked across it.  Fresh snow had fallen the night before, and they had to keep the walkways clean.  The simple thoughts of the woman almost distracted Arya before she pulled her attention back to Sansa.  The Imp had joined her fair sister on the battlement, and the pair looked out over the damaged wall at the godswood.  Arya moved a little closer, trying to sweep more quietly so she could hear what was being said.

 

“You're afraid of her.”  It wasn’t a question.  Sansa fixed the dwarf with her cold blue eyes as he looked out over the forest.  He wouldn’t meet her eyes.  This was the man who’d stood up to Joffrey at his worst, who’d laughed in the face of death.  And here he stood, terrified of his own Queen.

 

“Every good ruler needs to inspire a bit of fear.” Sansa could hear in his voice; he’d practiced those words.  He’d practiced them because he didn’t truly believe them, and because Daenerys inspired more than a little fear.  The northerners wouldn’t walk within two feet of her.  When she walked through the courtyard of the castle, the people parted around her with wide, terrified eyes.  They were worried that one wrong word, one misstep and she’d rain fire down on them with her dragons.  The northerners would never trust her. 

 

“I don't want Jon to go down there…The men in my family don't do well in the capital.” It was no lie that the south was inhospitable to northerners.  Sansa had enough Tully in her to blend in for a time, but as she’d grown, so had the wolf inside her, and the wolf belonged in the north. 

 

“No, but as your brother once told me, he's not a Stark” Sansa frowned at this, looking away from Tyrion across the forest.  If only he knew how right he was. She was only half listening when Tyrion continued to speak, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

 

“Her people love her, you've seen that.  You've seen how they fight for her. She wants to make the world a better place.  I believe in her.”  Again, his words sounded rehearsed to Sansa.  She’d heard a thousand polite speeches just like that in Kings Landing.  He kept having to profess his belief in her, she wondered if it was for her benefit or his own. 

 

“Tyrion…What if there's someone else? Someone better?” She said quietly, swallowing before turning to look back at the half-man.  Was she really going to do this?  She had sworn to Jon that she’d never tell.  This wasn’t about Jon though; this was about the good of the realm.  Daenerys was not what the realm needed, they needed someone truly good, not just playing at it.  His brown eyes locked with hers, and his brow furrowed.

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” He shook his head, shaking the snow out of his blonde curls. Sansa sighed softly, looking down at her hands.  Her next words were so quiet, Arya almost missed them.

 

“You’re right that Jon isn’t a Stark.  He’s not a Snow either.”  Arya almost forgot to keep sweeping, anger washing through her.  How could she? Sansa had promised to Jon not to tell.  Arya hadn’t even told Gendry, she’d just kept it to herself, but now Sansa was telling Tyrion.  To make matters worse, she was trying to push Jon towards the throne.  Jon who never wanted to be King. 

 

“What are you saying?” Gods, for someone so smart, the half-man could be incredibly thick.

 

“He told us in the Godswood, after the council yesterday.  He’s the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.  Rhaegar didn’t kidnap Lyanna, they ran away together because they were in love.  Rhaegar had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled, and married my aunt Lyanna.  He’s Aegon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne.” Sansa spoke softly.  She didn’t want her words to carry.  If the northern lords got wind that their King in the North had been a Targaryen all along, they’d march their men home and break their vow to fight with Daenerys.  Then she really would burn them all.

 

“That’s treason,” he whispered, looking down at his boots, not daring to look back up at Sansa.  Damn the Gods why couldn’t things ever be simple. 

 

“He doesn’t want it” Her words allowed Tyrion to draw breath again, the dwarf letting out a sigh as he leaned a hand against the stone.  At least he wouldn’t have to worry about Jon challenging Daenerys for the throne.  At least the man was devoted to her.  It certainly did make their relationship much more complicated though. 

 

“The best rulers are the ones who don’t want to rule” That was the truth, for certain.  Ned Stark had been reluctant to step into a position of power, but he had always been fair and kind.  Maybe Ned Stark hadn’t been his sire, but Jon was every inch his father’s son.  He had the blood of the dragon, but the loyalty of the wolf.  Lion’s weren’t known for being loyal, but this one was.

 

“I am loyal to Daenerys,” he said, looking back up at Sansa.  He just wanted her to understand, he couldn’t turn back now.  She didn’t look away, her blue eyes boring into his.  Her face was calm, but her words were sharp and biting.  Once again, Arya saw the wolf in her sister.  It was becoming a regular occurrence.

 

“Will you be able to stand beside her if she destroys the city? Will you be able to sleep at night, knowing you brought death upon their door?” She said, her words a soft snarl as she turned away from him, resting her gloved hands on the ramparts as snow started to fall lightly around them.  Tyrion sighed, shaking his head, reaching out to place a gloved hand on her forearm.

 

“I made my choice long ago.  I follow my queen.”  She pulled her arm away from his touch, looking down at him with judgement in her eyes.

 

“Do what you must, Lord Tyrion.  But remember… Jon doesn’t need to inspire fear to lead…”  With that, she turned and walked away, the heels of her boots clicking softly on the stones.  Arya kept sweeping, turning back the way she came.  She was seething. She made her way back inside the keep, leaving the broom in a corner as she hurried back to her chambers.  She was eager to take off this face.  She pulled it off the moment the door closed behind her.  The skirts she wore became loose around her waist as her body shrunk back to her normal form.  she tugged off the layered skirts, stuffing them in a drawer before pulling on her breeches and tunic, strapping Needle and Catspaw around her waist as usual.

 

She pulled her hair back into its usual bun, taking a moment to peer into the polished metal of her mirror.  The wound above her eyebrow was healing quickly, they’d probably remove the stitches tomorrow.  Most of the bruising had faded, just tinged a bit yellow or green in some places.  Another scar, another story.  She was covered in stories now.  At least she had a blacksmith who didn’t mind her stories.  She peered out the window, looking up at the sun.  It was high in the sky but had already started to sink.  It was past midday, they had three or four hours of daylight left at best. 

 

She’d had enough of lurking in the halls of Winterfell for the day, she’d rather visit the forge.  She wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, pulling on her gloves before she headed down to the kitchens.  They’d come to expect her to turn up around midday, always putting together some of what they were cooking. They never asked questions unless there was more than one option.  Today it was stew and fresh bread.  She gave the head cook a small smile and a thankful nod before she left the kitchen, heading to the forge.  

 

She didn’t mean to sneak up on Gendry, she moved silently on instinct now.  She couldn’t find it in herself to meet his teasing smile when he’d been startled by her.  Sansa’s betrayal still ached in her chest, and she grew less sure of the Dragon Queen with each passing day.  Even Tyrion, her own hand, was afraid of her and what she might do.  She didn’t mean to pour her worries out to Gendry, but it helped to have someone to talk to.  She was almost surprised when she found herself simply _knowing_ that she could trust him not to repeat her words.  She trusted him completely, perhaps more than anyone else now. 

 

Her heart had ached when he made her promise him not to die, just the same way she had the night before the battle for the dawn.  She said she’d try, but she couldn’t truly promise she’d make it back.  If she somehow made it through killing Cersei, there would still be miles of city and soldiers between them.  His tone had been teasing, but she knew he meant it.  Her death would break his heart, much in same way his would break hers.  If by miracle or misfortune she somehow made it through but lost him, she knew that her heart would be closed to love for the rest of her days.  Wolves mated for life after all. 

 

She’d shooed him away to get back to his work, teasing him that she liked to watch.  She really did enjoy watching him work.  She liked to watch the transformation of the steel, almost as much as she enjoyed the way his muscles flexed and rippled under his shirt.  She couldn’t help it when he caught her admiring him, the occasional involuntary smile crossing her face.

 

She could have watched him all night.  The cold of the north didn’t dig into her the way it did for him.  she was cool but comfortable when she noticed that Gendry had started shivering.  She stood from her place on his workbench, stretching her legs and walking around the forge to grab his cloak off its peg, tucking it under one arm.  She grasped his wrist to stop him from putting the steel back into the forge. 

 

“You’re getting cold, maybe it’s time to stop for the night,” She said, smiling up at him.  He shivered, even as he smiled down at her.  He turned to lay his tools on the bench, and she wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, fastening it across his broad chest.  He raised his brows at her in surprise, but she could tell he was glad to have the warmth of the furs once more. She took his hand in her own, leading him from the forge back towards the great hall. 

 

She pushed open the doors, leading him along the side of the main hall, trying to work her way towards the family solar without being noticed.  Being the bringer of the dawn certainly had its drawbacks, and this was one of them.

 

“Arya!”

 

Jon stood from his place at the high table where he was eating supper with Daenerys.  Sansa was elsewhere, probably taking supper in her quarters. Arya paused, regret washing over her.  Maybe it would have been better if she’d kept the face from earlier on hand, though the sight of an older serving woman dragging Gendry through the halls was certain to raise a few brows. 

 

“You’ve been avoiding meals, little sister.  Come, have supper with us this evening,” he called, Daenerys fixing her with a polite smile.  Suddenly Arya wished she’d been consumed by the army of the dead.  Surely it would have been better than having to face her worst fear; _polite conversation._

 

 

 

 


	26. The Wolf and the Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya (mainly, we get a little peek into everyone)
> 
> Polite conversation had never been one of Arya Stark's strong suits.

-  Arya  -

 

 

Arya felt trapped again, much like she had at the banquet a couple nights prior.  There were other high lords eating at the tables around the room, but she knew that her brother didn’t mean for her and Gendry to sit among the other Lords.  She took a seat across from Jon, Gendry sitting in the chair across from Daenerys.  She could _feel_ his discomfort.  He was trying to look anywhere other than the Dragon Queen, especially at the fork in front of his place setting.  He looked like he was trying to melt into the wood of the table and disappear.

 

Servants brought them goblets for wine, and Arya sipped at hers politely, though she wasn’t really in the mood for her senses to be dulled with drink.  She was a wolf in the lair of a dragon, and she needed to keep her wits about her with this Queen.  It was Daenerys who broke the silence, fixing her violet gaze on Arya. 

 

“We haven’t had the chance to speak much.” It wasn’t really a question.  There hadn’t been many quiet moments where Arya had been in the same room as Daenerys, and certainly not in such an intimate setting.  The four of them sharing a meal at the high table was far more conversation with Daenerys Targaryen than Arya would have ever preferred to have.

 

“No, we haven’t.” Arya didn’t offer anything more, picking up her fork and carving herself a slice off the roast that was positioned at the center of the table.  She sliced off a piece, putting it in her mouth and chewing slowly, fixing the Dragon Queen with her cold gray gaze.  She had to be here because of Jon, but she didn’t have to like it.

 

Tension hung in the air between the two woman, and Jon could only look between them.  Once, he’d torn his gaze away from the pair to glance at Gendry, seeing a mirrored look of panic on the other man.  The wolf and the dragon were squaring up, and they were liable to be torn apart if they tried to get between the two.  Once again, it was Daenerys who broke the silence.  Arya almost smirked.  The one who broke the silence was always the one who lost in the end.  Daenerys should know better than anyone; never cede power.

 

“You know, I don’t believe you’ve told the full story of how you killed the Night King.  I’d like to hear it.” The blonde woman said, her eyes softening as she tried to ingratiate herself to the youngest Stark woman.  How would she ever be able to keep a hold on Jon if she couldn’t earn the acceptance of his favorite sister.  Daenerys leaned forward slightly, her eyes flickering with interest as she looked at Arya intensely, the young Stark woman raising one dark brow before she spoke, her voice calm and measured.

 

“Of course, your Grace.  I waited for him in the Godswood.  We knew he would come for Bran, so I came for him.  I waited in a tree, and then dropped down on him.  He caught me by the throat and grabbed my left hand that held the dagger.  I dropped the knife and caught it with my right and drove it into his heart.  Then he shattered, and they all fell.” Arya was a natural born storyteller.  When she’d told Gendry and Jon of her years overseas, she’d not spared details, and woven a tale of a girl fighting to survive and work her way back home.  Now her voice was cool and calm.  Every word stated was a fact.  She could have made it a story, a riveting one.  She didn’t want to give that enjoyment to the Dragon Queen. 

 

“Ah… well it must have been thrilling.”  The disappointment in the Queen’s voice was palpable.  She’d been wanting a story, something to _entertain_ her.  Something to provide some joy in the bleak winter she faced in the North.  Arya was not an instrument of entertainment for this queen.  Her best stories were meant for other ears. For the ones who actually mattered. Arya picked at her nails, a bored look on her face.  She refused to engage with this Dragon Queen. 

 

“Facing death certainly tends to put life into perspective.  It makes you see what is important and what isn’t,” It had certainly put things into sharp perspective for her. Before the war for the dawn, she’d given little thought to anything else but her list.  There was more for her to live for now.  She had Sansa and Jon and Bran and Gendry and Nymeria.  It put into perspective just how foolish it was to march their armies south before they’d had time to rest. It put into perspective how dangerous the violet eyed Targaryen could be. 

 

Silence.  Arya won the game of silence again when Daenerys spoke, but this time her words were directed towards the blacksmith sitting at her side.

 

“I believe I have yet to thank our head blacksmith for forging the dragonglass weapons for our soldiers against the dead.  Gendry was it?” Gendry seemed surprised to be noticed at all, his brows shooting up towards his hairline when she addressed him directly.  He chewed and swallowed the hunk of pork that he’d been eating, trying to swallow again so he could find words that made sense.  She’d asked his name; he could start with his name.

 

“Gendry Waters, your Grace” He always felt some shame when giving his full name to highborns.  Daenerys would know as well as anyone else that he was a bastard just by his name.  Waters. He didn’t really mind, not anymore.  Jon was a bastard and a good man, he could be the same.  Arya watched him out of the corner of her eye.  She knew his discomfort when dealing with Nobility.  His leg was bouncing with nerves under the table, only stilling when she reached out subtly to squeeze his knee.  She watched some of the tension drop from his shoulders, and the jiggling ceased. 

 

“You have my gratitude.  I hear you wield a hammer well.  Much like your father.  Your father who took the throne from my family and tried to have me killed for years.” This again.  The Dragon Queen sure knew how to hold a grudge.  She’d grilled him on his parentage when they’d first met on Dragonstone, and now here again in Winterfell.  His face darkened and one hand found Arya’s beneath the table.  She was almost surprised when he gripped her fingers.  She’d never known her bull to need to draw strength from anything, but she was happy to provide it.

 

“I cannot keep apologizing for the mistakes of a man I never knew, your grace.  I am not my father,” he said, looking down at his plate.  It took all of Arya’s training not to scowl at the Dragon Queen. 

 

“No.  But you are the last Baratheon,” The last name slipped through the Queens lips like poison.  She hated the Baratheons.  It was their fault that she’d been raised in Pentos, that she’d been sold to Khal Drogo.  That she’d had to fight so long and so hard to make it back to these shores which she claimed to rightfully rule

 

“I’m not a Baratheon, your grace, just a bastard.”  Arya could hear the soft notes of panic in Gendry’s voice.  Daenerys’s gaze softened slightly as she looked at the young man sitting across from her.  They were close in age.  He must have been one of King Roberts first bastards, born just shortly after his father had taken the throne.  Daenerys hated the very mention of the man who had taken her throne, but she enjoyed the blacksmith, as did Jon.

 

“Not if I name you Gendry Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands” fear flashed across his face and he turned pale.  What did he know about being a lord? He couldn’t even read, now suddenly she was going to expect him to run a holdfast.  He shook his head quickly, the fork slipping from is fingers to clatter to the metal plate he was eating from.

 

“I can’t…” He kept shaking his head, even when Daenerys leaned forward to give him a kind smile.  For all her violence and bloodlust, it was moments like this where he could see why she’d gained such a following.  When she did smile at him with kindness in her gaze, he could understand why people had named her their queen.  Her next words struck ice into his heart. 

 

“I have every confidence in you, especially with Lady Stark assisting you. She will make a fine Lady of Storms End” Arya stiffened in her chair, feeling Gendry freeze in much the same way.  It was almost humorous how wrong the Dragon Queen was about Arya making a fine lady.  She might have laughed had she not been so incredibly furious.  First she’d had to handle Sansa telling Tyrion of Jon’s parentage, and now this.  She didn’t look at Daenerys, her gaze turned to Jon, cold as steel.  He couldn’t meet her gaze.

 

“And who says I’d be Lady of Storms End?” Her words were quiet and deadly calm.  Gendry could feel the rage emanating off her in waves.  She looked calm, but she was furious. The Dragon Queen raised a brow, looking between Arya and Gendry with a confused expression.  It was clear to all who saw them that they were together, yet Jon wouldn’t meet his sister’s gaze.  She turned to look at the dark-haired man to her right, furrowing her brow slightly at the former King in the North

 

“Jon led me to believe that you were betrothed…” Daenerys said quietly, her gaze betraying her displeasure at Jon.  He’d told her that his little sister was hell bent on marrying a bastard blacksmith.  He’d asked to have the man legitimized so that his sister’s name wouldn’t be ruined.  Clearly there had been a modicum of truth to his story, but some details had been changed.

 

“That was presumptive of him…” Arya snapped, scowling at her brother as she took another bite of meat. First Sansa and now Jon.  Did secrets mean nothing to either of them anymore?  She’d never tell another living soul about the conversations they’d had in the Godswood, both about her past and his parentage.  It was clear her siblings didn’t have such deep moral quandaries about personal information when it meant a chance at power.

 

“You took him to your bed Arya, what was I supposed to think?” Jon groaned, rubbing over his face with one hand.  Now everyone at the table was scowling at him.  Arya was furious he’d told Daenerys about how close she really was with Gendry.  Daenerys was upset that he’d lied to her about the nature of Arya and Gendry’s relationship.  Gendry was mad that somehow Jon Snow had managed to get Arya to deny his hand in marriage before he’d even had the chance to be turned down by her on his own first. 

 

“You were supposed to keep your scheming for the lords in the south.  I will not be married off at your whims.” She growled, almost baring her teeth at her older brother.  She-wolf indeed.  Jon shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.  This had all gone very sideways from what he’d been trying to accomplish.  He’d just wanted his little sister to marry a man with a title that matched her own. 

 

“You told me that you loved him, now he’s got a title that makes him worthy of you.” The moment the words left Jon’s mouth; you could see on his face that he _knew_ he’d made a mistake.  Arya’s eyes were hard and piercing as she stared at him. Even Ghost’s ear pressed back with concern as he watched from his place by the fire.  Even he could feel the tension that hung in the air over the high table.

 

“Worthy?” Her voice was a snarl, half wolf, half woman.  She glared at her brother, eyes burning with rage.  How dare he?  Of all the men in the world, he’d known what it was like to be a bastard. He’d known what it was like to never really have a family, to be shunned and pushed away.  He’d been a bastard all his life.  He’d still been crowned King in the North, despite him having no name and no claim to it.  She’d loved him as her brother for all her years.  Why would it matter to her now if the man she loved was a bastard?

 

“Arya I didn’t…” His voice was cut off by her sharp reply.

 

“He was always worthy.  He was worthy when he was a bastard blacksmith, making him a Lord doesn’t change that.” Her words were biting and carried across the hall.  She was too angry to care if anyone else listened to their conversation. She wanted to drive her blade into something, just to ease the terrible itch of violence that was growing in the back of her mind. 

 

“I don’t want it” The tension broke when Gendry spoke.  Gray and violet eyes turned their focus to the blacksmith instead of Jon.  The former King was glad to no longer be the center of attention.  Instead, Daenerys’s violet eyes narrowed at the blacksmith.

 

“Excuse me?” She’d heard him perfectly clearly, but she was not used to being denied.  What bastard boy wouldn’t want lands and titles and all that came with it? He would have a home, a name, something to call his own. 

 

“I don’t want to be Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storms End… your Grace…”  He watched the fury flash across the Queen’s eyes, but she quickly schooled her anger into a much milder disappointment.

 

“You’d rather be nobody?”  Daenerys lifted her brows as she regarded the smith.  Arya felt a fierce wave of emotion wash over her, one that she hadn’t usually associated with her blacksmith.  _Protective_.  She wanted to put herself between him and the Dragon Queen, bare her teeth and show this woman that she was dealing with wolves.  He wasn’t a nobody; he was a blacksmith and a fighter and a warrior against the long night.  That the queen would call him such rankled her.

 

“I’d rather stay at her side for the rest of my days than rule a holdfast.  I could never ask that life of her.  You can’t put a wolf in a cage.” His next words caught Arya off guard, and she turned her head to look at him, raising one brow.  She didn’t want to give her emotions away in front of the Dragon Queen, but words made her heart race with joy.  He knew that dresses and sewing and running a house would be just like locking her in a cage.  She loved that he knew her so well, even after fate had kept them apart for so many years. 

 

“And if I name you anyways?” her focus snapped back to Daenerys, who was frowning now at Gendry.  He met her gaze unwaveringly.  Arya could see that little muscle twitching in his jaw.  She was fierce as a wolf; he was stubborn as a bull.  This was not a fight he was going to back down from.

 

“Then Storms End will have an absentee Lord who spends his days chasing a she-wolf, wherever she leads him.” he bit back, sitting up a bit more in his chair as though he was squaring off for an actual fight.  Arya reached over under the table and grasped his hand, uncurling his clenched fingers and threading hers through them.  She could feel him relax under her touch, and he sat back slightly.  As much as she appreciated the idea of him chasing her across the country, it wasn’t good to taunt the Dragon Queen.

 

“You would forsake your duty?” Gendry shook his head, squeezing Arya’s hand back under the table.  He finally broke his gaze from the Dragon Queen, glancing to Arya for just a moment.  His next words made warmth bloom in her chest, unable to keep the faintest of blushes from crossing her face. 

 

“She is my duty.  Where she goes, I follow…” The last thing Daenerys needed was another Lord loyal to a Stark.  The anger on her face faded into resignation and she sighed, looking down at her plate. She’d hoped to make Gendry Lord of Storms End so he would be grateful and loyal to her in the years to come.  Now she knew, he was loyal, but only to his she-wolf.  It was a shame they weren’t betrothed; she could see how clearly the smith cared for Jon’s sister. 

 

“Perhaps we were hasty then.  Clearly there was a miscommunication, since you are evidently not betrothed… yet you reside in her bedchambers.” Daenerys quipped, spearing a potato with her fork, raising one brow at the blacksmith.  He stumbled now, words failing him as he opened and closed his mouth, trying to think of something to say.  Instead, it was Arya who broke the silence. 

 

“We ride south in two days.  We might die trying to take Kings Landing for you.  I’m not wasting the time I have left.” She glanced from Daenerys to Jon, before back to her own plate, taking a bite of the roast.  Daenerys’s cold gaze softened slightly, and for just a moment, Arya saw something quiet and sad inside the dragon queen.  There was loss and longing.  Longing for time.  Just another second, just another minute.  There was never enough time for those that had been lost.  The Dragon Queen let out a sigh, regarding the potato on her fork, looking back to the youngest Stark woman.  At least the bringer of the dawn knew what was really important.

 

“Well said.” Daenerys said, lifting her fork to her mouth and chewing her bite slowly. The conversation died with those words.  They ate in silence for a few more awkward minutes before Daenerys finished with her meal and stood.  Arya stood as well, giving Gendry a small shove with her hip when he didn’t immediately stand.  She rolled her eyes when he blushed and stood hurriedly. How had the queen ever thought to make him a Lord?  It would have taken years to teach him how to behave like a noble, and even then, she knew he’d never really get the hang of it. 

 

Jon followed her from the great hall, shooting Arya an apologetic glance when he caught her eyes.  Arya sunk back down in her chair, picking up her mostly untouched wine goblet, drinking it down in several quick gulps. Gendry raised his brows but said nothing, taking a sip from his own drink, watching as she stabbed at her food with her fork.  The way she pouted at her plate, suddenly he was five and ten again and she was Arry the orphan boy who was really a girl, and she’d been angrily stabbing at potatoes. 

 

“I think its already dead, ya know.” He teased, bumping his shoulder against hers gently.  Arya looked up at him, then back at the hunk of meat she’d been so angrily impaling.  She’d reduced that poor hunk of meat to a half-shredded mess.  A smile broke over her face that crinkled her eyes, laughter ringing around the hall as she giggled over the situation and the suddenly moonstruck look on Gendry’s face.   

 

How he loved making her laugh. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter. I know this is the first time I've missed a day since I started, but I really needed to see the end before I decided how I wanted this scene to go. I've made up my mind about how the story will be ending, I hope you enjoy where it goes from here.


	27. The Bastards of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry&Jon
> 
> I've mentioned that Jon and Gendry were friends before they returned to Winterfell, and this scene came to me when I thought about them getting a chance to talk alone.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

No one paid him any mind as he worked in the forge on their final day.  The remainder of the smiths had returned to work, mending swords and armor at the last minute.  They were too busy taking stock of how many swords, axes, knives, and spears they had.  He had plenty of time to spend at his workbench putting the final touches on Arya’s sword.  He’d slid the blade into the metal core of the pommel and hammered it until they couldn’t be wrenched apart, even with the grip of his tongs.  He took extra care when seating the carved wolf’s head, making sure the wood remained undamaged as he pounded in tiny pegs to hold it in place. 

 

After he finished the leather for the grip, he slid the new blade into a thin scabbard, taking a moment to admire his work.  It had been a long time since he’d had a chance to make something so fine.  Most of the men who had come to his shop on the street of steel had simply wanted a sharp, well balanced blade.  The occasional highborn might stop by to commission a sword or ax or another piece that was meant to be looked at, not swung.  He’d still made those orders just as sharp and well balanced, but he’d been able to take the time to make those weapons truly beautiful. 

 

He picked up the scabbard, feeling the weight of it in his hands, troubling thoughts of doubt flickering through his mind.  What if she didn’t like it? What if she felt it was too long, or too wide, or too… something?  What if she thought the wolf was presumptuous?  He shook his head, scowling down at his boots.  He’d always taken pride in his work before, but somehow this felt different.  He had nothing to offer her.  No lands, no titles, not even a name.  But he could give her his arm and his hammer, and most of all he could give her his time.  He’d give her all his days, gladly.

 

He set the finished blade back down on the workbench, looking around his workstation.  There was an idea forming in his mind, and after a moment of thought, he began to move through the smithy with purpose.  He gathered steel and his tools, building up the forge.  The work was painstakingly slow and detailed, and it was only when he felt the cool brush of night on his skin did he realize the hour.  It didn’t matter now, he had finished anyway, he had just been brushing the last specs of dust from the metal when he had felt the chill. 

 

He tucked the cooled metal away into the pocket in his trousers, pulling on his cloak.  He really needed to grow his hair out if he was going to spend any time in the north going forward. It was too cold here for short hair. Now he understood why all the Stark men had worn it so long, you needed to keep your hair to keep off the chill.  He picked up Arya’s sword, tucking it under his arm beneath his cloak.  He wanted it to be a surprise after all. 

 

He made his way into the great hall, searching among those eating for his wolf.  She wasn’t there, though he quickly locked eyes with another wolf.  Jon’s dark eyes met Gendry’s, and a quick jerk of his head clearly indicated what the former King in the North wanted. _Come here_.

 

Gendry moved rather unwillingly along the side of the hall towards the high table.  Jon pushed the chair beside him out, motioning for Gendry to sit.  Jon sat alone at the high table that night.  Sansa and Daenerys were both taking supper in their quarters.  They had quarreled over the march south again, with Sansa trying to explain that they didn’t have enough horses and wagons to properly supply the army south on such short notice.  It had taken Arya and a snarling Nymeria between them to stop the argument.  It had been a tiring day for the former King in the North, and he had missed talking to his friend.

 

Gendry sat down, leaning the sword against his chair to the side, trying to keep it as out of sight as possible.  He didn’t want Arya seeing it if she appeared in the hall.  He had hoped to present it to her privately.  He looked back at Jon, that mute feeling washing over him as he opened and then closed his mouth, trying to figure out what to say. _‘how are you? its been a while.  I’m in love with your sister’._   Luckily, it was Jon who broke the silence. He’d noticed the sword.

 

“What’ve you got there?”

 

Gendry groaned, letting out a low sigh before he picked up the blade, handing it to the former King in the North.  Jon raised a brow, taking the sword by the scabbard, running his hands over the leather, looking from Gendry to the sword.

 

“You made this?” Jon inspected the sword, running his fingers over the smooth wooden pommel, tracing under the chin of the wooden direwolf.  He wrapped his fingers around the grip, noting the smooth leather as he pulled the blade free from its sheath.  He sucked in a breath when he examined the blade.  Stamped into the steel, right where it met the guard, was a stark direwolf, snarling down the blade at any potential enemy.  He ran his hand slowly down the blade, almost slicing his finger on the edge.  It was incredibly sharp, and it shone in the firelight, the flames mirrored in the blade.

 

“For her.” Jon didn’t need to ask; he knew who this blade was for.  He’d given Arya her Needle when she’d just been a little girl.  It was small and thin and good for small quick jabs.  It was suited for one on one combat, but not for the rage of war.  This sword was thin, but strong and sharp.  It could pierce armor or block a blow without yielding.  It was well suited for her. 

 

“Aye…” Gendry was worried Jon might be upset that he’d forged a weapon for his little sister, but then he remembered who’d given Arya a sword in the first place.  That, and Jon’s friendly smile eased those tensions. It had been a while since he’d seen that kind of smile on his friend.  The bastard of the north had a stony demeanor most of the time, but the real smiles were always brought to the surface by his family.

 

“Its fine work, rarely have I seen its like.” He said, returning the blade to its sheath and passing it back to Gendry. The smith could feel pride well in his chest, a smile breaking out over his own face as he rested the sword against his leg.  Jon had Longclaw, a Valyrian steel sword.  He’d seen Ice, and dozens of other expertly forged weapons.  That kind of compliment meant a great deal to Gendry, coming from Jon Snow.

 

“Thank you, Milord” Jon scowled, shaking his head and lifting his goblet of wine.

 

“How many times have I told you to call me Jon?” he growled, taking a few swigs from his cup. Gendry sighed, nodding his head.  He still had trouble breaking the habit of addressing everyone as Milord and Milady.  Jon had given him permission to use his first name months ago, but he still slipped up.

 

“Sorry, Jon” he said, putting playful emphasis on the other man’s name. He lifted the goblet that had been placed in front of him, taking a swig or two of the wine.  They were drinking good wine again tonight.  One more feast before they all rode south to die in the morning.  There would be no more feasts until the war was won after tonight. 

 

“Are you riding south with us tomorrow?” Jon’s question snapped Gendry out of a small daze.  He just nodded, not really knowing what to say.  What could you say to that kind of question? They were riding to war tomorrow, and he’d pledged to fight.

 

“Aye.” Silence fell between the two men, each taking this opportunity to eat their supper.  Gendry wasn’t sure what to say again.  Their supper the night before had been painfully awkward. Jon had tried to push a title onto him so that he’d be ‘worthy’ of Arya, and he couldn’t forget her fury.  She’d paced their room for nearly thirty minutes the night prior, fuming.  She’d ranted and raved until he’d caught her up in his arms and kissed her.  She’d insisted over and over that he’d always been worthy to her, and her sudden protective fury had touched him. 

 

“I’m sorry about what I said yesterday, at supper.  I’m not sure Arya will ever forgive me for that.  It just came out all wrong…” Jon broke the silence with his apology.  The former King in the North scowled into his goblet, glancing over at Gendry.  Gendry understood where the other man’s thoughts had been. Who wouldn’t rather their Lady sister marry a Lord, even a bastard one?  Gendry sighed, shaking his head slightly at Jon.

 

“You could have at least given me the chance to have her turn down my hand in marriage on my own first.” He complained, taking a few swigs of his wine, fixing the north with a cool blue gaze that he rarely used.  Jon’s brown eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open.

 

“You haven’t asked her?” Jon was almost offended.  Was Arya good enough to bed but not wed?  He’d been accepting so far, but this rankled him. 

 

“You think she’d say yes?” his words weren’t begging or hopefully, they were incredulous.  Gendry knew Arya, and he’d thought Jon knew her too.  You couldn’t put a collar on a wolf.  When they spotted chains, they ran.  He didn’t want to push her away by trying to hard to keep her. Jon’s eyes softened and he shook his head, a smile breaking out over his face as he chuckled. 

 

“Fair point” He knew his little sister.  She was wild and untamable. It was probably going to be Arya to proposed to the blacksmith if it ever happened.  Jon’s memory flickered back to their talk in the Godswood a couple days prior.  He’d seen the look on her face when she’d talked of the smith.  He’d asked her if they would marry, its where he’d got the idea to tell a little white lie to Daenerys.  She hadn’t seemed completely closed off to the idea.

 

“She might though…” Jon said, looking over at Gendry.  The blacksmith snorted, smiling around the hunk of bread in his mouth.  He still talked with food in his mouth.  He definitely didn’t have the manners of a lord.  He certainly would have needed a lot of shaping up before he’d have been presentable as Lord of Storms End. 

 

“Very funny” he grumbled around his food, taking a swig of wine to wash it down.

 

“I asked her in the Godswood… she said maybe…” Jon replied, taking a sip from his own goblet.  Gendry frowned, furrowing his brows as he looked at Jon, not really believing his words.  If there was anyone who Arya would have told about her desire to marry or not, it would have been Jon.  Out of all her siblings, they’d always been the closest.  Even though she was getting close to Sansa now, she’d always got along with Jon.

 

“You’d allow her to marry a bastard with no name and nothing to give her but a hammer?” He quipped, raising a brow at the former King in the North.  He’d been unworthy without a title last night, apparently. Nothing had changed since the night prior, except perhaps the other man’s mind.

 

“She loves you.  You make her happy, I’ve seen it…  We owe her our lives; happiness is the least I can give her.” Jon looked back to his supper, sadness crossing his face.  They’d all lost so much and come so far.  The world was changing.  A bastard had been King in the North.  Dragons had returned to the world.  Was it really so mad to think that maybe a highborn woman who was never meant to be a lady belonged with a blacksmith?

 

“She deserves happiness.  She’s known so much pain.”  Gendry knew she’d told Jon her story.  He knew about the torture, the beatings, the stabbings, the heartbreak of death.  She’d sacrificed her youth to earn vengeance for her family.  If there was anyone who deserved to be happy, it was the girl who had suffered so greatly.

 

“…I know.  Don’t you wish you could turn back the days, stop it all from happening?  Just so she wouldn’t have to hurt.”  Gendry never wished for anything more.  He knew she’d said it had been necessary for her to suffer so that she could become who she needed to be.  He knew it was supposed to be fate, but he still wished he could have prevented her suffering somehow.

 

“Yes…” he downed the rest of his wine, setting down his goblet.  He didn’t stop the servant that breezed by to refill it, though he gave the girl a thankful nod.  He took another swig, sighing as he looked out cross the hall.  There was laughter and smiles among the men, but between the jokes, he could see flashes of worry and sadness.  One last feast. One last night of drink and good food. 

 

“Doesn’t do to dwell on ‘ _what ifs_.’  We’re here now, that’s what matters.” Jon was right. They were marching to war the next day, now was all that mattered.  Because of their Dragon Queen, now was all they had.

 

“Thanks to her...” Gendry’s gaze locked onto the figure that entered the hall, the great figure of her direwolf at her side.  People moved aside for her as she walked along the side of the hall.  He barely had enough time to slide the sword into an empty chair that was tucked under the table.  He could only hope she hadn’t noticed it. 

 

“Arya, will you join us for supper?” Jon asked, gesturing to the chair at his right. She shook her head, moving to stand beside Gendry, her hand resting on the back of his chair, fingertips brushing his shoulder ever so lightly. 

 

“I’m not really in the mood after the afternoon I spent with Sansa and The Queen.  I’ll be in our room.” Her last words were directed only at Gendry, and his heart gave a little flip when she called it _our room_.  Two days ago, it had been _her_ room.  He did have to admit; he’d started thinking of her bed as his own.  When he was working in the forge and a bout of exhaustion hit him, he’d long for their feather bed and her embrace.  For once in his life, there was a place where he felt he belonged; with her.

 

“Do you want me to bring you up a plate?” Gendry offered, reaching up to brush his fingertips against hers gently.  She looked down at him, her brows raising in surprise before a small smile curled across her face.  She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek.  He could feel his skin tingling where her lips had touched him.  He could tell, his face was burning red from her kiss.

 

“Yes, please,” Her words were quiet, but he could hear the sincerity in them.  He knew she didn’t like to face crowds or have to suffer through idle conversation.  She’d still need supper, and it wasn’t as though it would be any trouble to carry a plate back to _their_ room.  She’d always needed alone time when they were younger, though somehow ‘alone time’ had always included him.  She’d lead him away from any others, and had always talked his ear off, even when she’d been pretending to be a boy.  He could tell she grew tired of other people, but she never seemed to get tired of him.

 

“Goodnight brother.  I’ll see you later,” She said, eyeing Gendry with her last words.  She turned, slipping out the back of the hall and back towards their chambers, Nymeria hot on her heels.  Jon watched as Gendry’s gaze lingered on the doorway.  The blacksmith didn’t even realize that he’d reached up to touch the place on his cheek where Arya had kissed him.  He let out a sigh, reaching out to clap the other young man on the shoulder.

 

“You should probably get a move on; she’s never been very patient,” He said, chuckling as the words seemed to jolt Gendry back to reality.  The smith finished off the rest of his own food rather quickly, downing the rest of his wine before starting to load up a clean plate with food for his she-wolf.  He piled on meat, cheese, and warm bread with butter for Arya, as well as a couple of choice bones for Nymeria to crunch on.   He pushed back his chair, tucking the sword under his arm before he turned to leave. 

 

“Gendry…” Jon stood, pushing his chair back as he looked after the blacksmith.  He gripped the sword that always rested on his hip.  This time the King in the North was the one who was having trouble finding the words.  He’d always liked the smith, they got along well.  If this was going to be the man in Arya’s life, he was glad she’d made such a good choice. There was no denying that Gendry was a good man.

 

“Will you fight alongside me at Kings Landing? As my brother?” Gendry sucked in a low breath at the words.  He knew Arya considered him family, she had for years.  Without any promises or words of proposal, now Jon was extending the title of family to him as well.  He smiled at Jon, setting down the plate he’d been carrying.  He extended his arm to the dark eyed man, nodding as Jon gripped his arm in return.

 

“Aye…brother…” As he’d learned rather recently, family was what you made it.

 

 


	28. Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> Gendry presents her with a present :P

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Arya was tired.  She could spend hours training, riding, or fighting. She could fight off an army of the dead and come out standing.  Having to stand between Sansa and Daenerys as they argued about soldiers and supplies was more tiring than anything she’d had to face in the recent weeks. Jon had stood beside his queen; Arya had taken her place beside Sansa. It had been Nymeria’s terrifying snarl that had finally silenced the two bickering women.  Ghost had been nothing but gentle towards Daenerys. He would never have dared bare his teeth at Jon’s chosen.  Nymeria did not hold the same regard for the Dragon Queen.  She did not smell like pack.

 

Arya had enjoyed the flash of fear in the blonde woman’s eyes when Nymeria had bared her fangs and stepped between the feuding women.  For a woman who rode a dragon, she was quite skittish around the brown and white direwolf.  For good reason too.  Dragons were large, you couldn’t fit one inside the war room.  Drogon was not here to protect her now, and a word from Arya could have the direwolf’s jaws around the queen’s slender throat faster than Jon could draw his sword to defend her. 

 

Hours they had debated and argued, and Arya was exhausted by it.  The meeting had filled her only with worry, and it had taken over an hour in the training yard to work out her frustration on a very sorry looking dummy.  She’d slashed it to ribbons with Needle and Catspaw, working out all her anger on the stuffed burlap body.  Only when her arms had trembled with expenditure and her anger had dissipated had she made her way back towards the keep.  She’d started training before sundown.  Now the moon was beginning to rise in the sky and night had settled in fully.  She’d lost track of time. 

 

She’d peeked her head into the forge, but the embers were burning low and banked already, the flock of smiths having retired for the night.  Gendry worked long hours, but it was late even for him to be at the forge.  He must have made his way to the great hall by now.  She hated the way all eyes turned to her when she entered a room now.  The only eyes she didn’t mind were the blue and brown ones that locked onto her when she stepped in.  She was surprised to see Jon and Gendry sitting side by side at the high table.  It seemed that Sansa and Daenerys both had opted to take supper in their chambers.  Given the day they’d all had, she didn’t blame them.  The hall was warm, but entirely too loud for her taste. 

 

She crossed the hall to stand beside Gendry’s chair. She didn’t want to linger, she wanted the privacy of their chambers.  She was almost surprised when he reached up to touch her hand, the steely look on her face softening when he spoke, offering to bring supper up to her.  She smiled, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.  She would have kissed him properly, but she had a feeling Jon might lose his temper if she did that. He knew she didn’t like halls and feasts and crowds.  No one knew her as well as he did.

 

With the promise of company and food, she gave her leave to her brother and her bull, weaving through the halls of Winterfell back to her room.  She kicked off her boots, dressing down to just her shirt and breeches, sitting down in front of the fireplace as she started to build it back up.  The servants had kept the fire from dying completely during the day, it didn’t take much coaxing to bring the flames back to a roar.  Nymeria sunk down beside her girl, resting her head on Arya’s knee as the pair stared into the flames. 

 

Arya heard the door open.  She knew it was Gendry from the way that familiar warmth settled in her stomach at his presence. She was pleasantly surprised when Gendry sunk down beside her, passing her the plate and leaning forwards to bask in the warmth of the flames.  She leaned her shoulder against his lightly, glad that she finally had some respite from such a difficult day. 

 

“So, Lady Sansa and the Queen were at it again?” he asked, looking over at her as he warmed his hands by the flames.  It must have been the years growing up in the north, but he swore Arya built the best fires.  They burned hot and clean.  She’d probably been building up her fireplace ever since she was old enough to toddle.  Children grew up quickly in the north.  Arya sighed, worrying at her lip as she looked into the fire.

 

“They cannot agree on anything.  Sansa still wants to delay the march south, Daenerys refuses.” She picked up the meat with her fingers, stacking it with the cheese on a hunk of bread, taking a bite of her makeshift sandwich.  Gendry raised his brows at her.  Not at her manners, or lack thereof, he was used to that.  What he wasn’t used to was her agreeing so strongly with Sansa.  She’d told him they’d always had a strained relationship as girls.  Sansa had always been a proper lady, and Arya had always been, well, Arya.

 

“You agree with Sansa?” She shrugged as she chewed, taking another bite of her food.  She swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.  She hadn’t even realized she’d not eaten since breakfast and she was ravenous. 

 

“I never would have sided with her when we were children, but she’s right.  There’s no need to march south so soon.” She spoke through her mouthful, passing one of the bones Gendry had brought to Nymeria.  The direwolf accepted the treat happily, noisy crunching starting to come from Arya’s right as the three of them sat by the fireplace.  It didn’t take Arya long to finish the food.  She stood, leaving the final bone near the hearth for Nymeria before she left the dirtied plate on her desk. Gendry stood as well, taking off his cloak and laying it on the bed, stretching as he started dressing down.

 

“Did you enjoy working the forge today?  I lost track of time, or I would have stopped by…” Arya raked her gaze over the blacksmith appreciatively, enjoying the view as he stripped off his dirty shirt.  He rummaged around in the dresser drawer that she had shoved his clean clothes into, pulling out a fresh shirt and pulling it on over his head.  He was still a little sooty, but that was sort of an occupational hazard.

 

“I know you like watching” he teased her, smiling as she chuckled and rolled her eyes at him. Arya shook her head, watching as he took off his boots and left them at the foot of the bed, lined up next to hers.  She liked the way they looked like they belonged there.  Gendry stretched, letting out a long sigh before he looked back to Arya.  She wasn’t quite sure what the look on his face meant, there was a strange nervousness in her blacksmith that she wasn’t used to.  She forgot about that lingering look when she heard his next words.

 

“I finished a piece I was working on; would you like to see?” He asked, a grin crossing his face at her immediate response.

 

“Show me!” Arya had never been patient, and the sharp demand didn’t phase Gendry.  She bounced on the balls of her feet when he pulled his cloak off the bed, pulling a blade from the folds of cloth.  He draped the cloak over the back of the chair at the desk, holding the blade in its sheath out to her. 

 

Arya reached out to take the sword, looking from Gendry to the weapon a couple times before she focused her attention to the blade.  She ran her fingers along the scabbard, testing the smooth leather of the grip.  She was mesmerized by the wolf’s head that adorned the pommel, peering down at the dragonglass eyes of the carved face of Nymeria.  She wrapped her fingers around the grip, pulling the blade from its sheath, setting the scabbard down on the bed. 

 

She wasn’t even aware of the awestruck look on her face as she examined the blade.  It shone in the low light of their room; the flickering of the flames reflected in the metal.  She caressed lightly over the Stark direwolf that had been stamped into the blade near the hilt, finally turning her gaze back to the blacksmith.  His face was a mixture of nerves and pride, and she found that it took her breath away almost as much as the sword. 

 

She shifted her grip on the blade, enjoying the way it felt so natural in her hand.  He’d even made sure to fashion the blade for her left handedness, the guard on the side to defend against righthanded attackers.  She stepped around him, twirling the blade in her hand, giving a few experimental swipes with the blade.  It was heavier than needle, but not even by that much.  The biggest adjustment would be learning this new length and getting used to the width of the blade.  Needle was so thin, it had barely any drag when she swung it through the air.  She’d need to angle this blade for a silent swipe, but it was still easily doable. 

 

“It’s beautiful…” She whispered, running her fingers appreciatively along the blade one more time before she picked up the scabbard and slid the blade back into its sheath.  Needle was fine castle forged steel, but it was rare that she’d seen a sword of such quality.

 

“You deserve a blade as beautiful as you are…” Arya felt her blush at the blacksmith’s words, looking back at him to smile broadly.  She laid her new blade on the desk gently, closing the distance between them to throw her arms around his neck, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.  He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close against his chest, letting out a very wolf like growl into her kiss. She broke away, looking at the sword once more.

 

“This must have taken you hours and hours” She said, looking back to him, caressing her fingers along the back of his neck and across his broad shoulders gently.  He smiled a bit and shrugged, leaning down to kiss her again.

 

“Good things take time…” he muttered against her lips, earning a chuckle from the she-wolf.  He’d give her all of his hours for all of his days if she’d have him.  She wouldn’t mind spending all of her hours with him either.  She broke the kiss, pulling him closer as she nuzzled her face against his neck, squeezing her eyes shut against the hint of tears that were threatening to appear.  She’d never been given such a beautiful gift, and that he’d made it with his own hands just made it even more special.

 

“Thank you” she said quietly, letting out a soft sigh as she hugged him close, opening her eyes and pulling back ever so slightly so that she could look up at him.  She could see the joy in his eyes at her reception of his gift.  She’d given him permission to make her a blade a couple days ago, but this had definitely taken more than a day and a half.  He must have started it before he’d even asked about making her a new blade.  She’d need to remember to tease him about that later.

 

“I made you something else… but… I don’t know if it’s right…” He said, his voice suddenly halting.  Arya looked up at him, her brow furrowing slightly.  He pulled out of her arms slightly, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and pulling something out.  His hand was trembling as he lifted it so she could see.  Resting in his palm were two pendants, one the head of a wolf, the other of a bull, each strung onto a thin leather cord.  The work was small and slightly rough in its design, but they were a bit rough around the edges themselves. 

 

Arya reached out, picking up the pendant shaped like a bull, turning it over in her fingers.  She narrowed her eyes at the tiny words inscribed on the back. _I am yours._   Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and she could feel her heart begin to race.  She closed her hand around the bull, reaching up with her other to flip over the wolf’s head.  _You are mine._   She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pendant.  She could feel him shift ever so slightly, the sound of him clearing his throat echoing loudly through the quiet room. 

 

“You said those words to me, the day after the battle… I know you’ll probably never let me say them to you in front of a Weirwood tree, but I’d be a fool if I never asked…” Arya could swear she felt her heart stop briefly when he spoke.  They’d discussed marriage as children.  She’d insisted it was never for her, that she’d never be someone’s lady or wife.  She almost made to pull away from him, but one arm curled around her waist, keeping her close.  She looked up at him, worrying her bottom lip.  She was almost scared of the words that she knew were coming. 

 

“Gendry…”

 

“Arya… I love you.  I know you’ll probably say no, but just in case you’ve changed your mind on the subject; will you marry me?” He asked, smiling down at her.  His gaze was playful, and just a hint hopeful, but he was right.  She hadn’t changed her mind on the subject, not just yet.  she still had to finish her list.  She looked down at the bull pendant in her hand, running her fingers over the steel, feeling the words he’d carved into the back. She let out a sigh, closing her hand again before leaning up to kiss him gently.  She pulled away, reaching up to cup his face in her hand, caressing her thumb across his cheekbone.

 

“Later, I want you to ask me again… After we ride south, when the battle is done… ask me again.”  Her words were quiet, as though she barely wanted to admit them at all.  She felt him suck in a sharp breath, his arm tightening around her waist as he pulled her just a little closer.  It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no.  He knew she had to finish her list.  When it was done, when they’d both made it out alive, then she’d give him her answer. 

 

“Well now you’re definitely not allowed to die,” he teased, breaking the silence between them, earning a soft giggle from the she-wolf. 

 

“Neither are you” She quipped back, leaning up to kiss him deeply before she pulled away from his embrace.  She looked down at the bull pendant in her hand, a smile crossing her face as she slipped the leather cord around her neck, the steel pendant settling against her skin through the opening in her shirt.  Just because she couldn’t give him an answer yet didn’t mean that she wouldn’t wear the pendant anyway.  No one else needed to know what it meant.

 

“Now, I think its only fair that I thank you properly for these beautiful gifts,” She said, turning back to face Gendry, fixing him with her gray eyes. She took the wolf pendant from his hand, slipping it over his neck, trailing her fingers over the metal as it came to rest against his chest.  A possessive feeling washed over her as she admired the direwolf resting on his chest. No one else might know what it meant, but she knew.  They belonged to each other now.

 

“Oh really? Am I going to have to make you weapons more often?” He teased, though she saw the way his eyes darkened at her words ever so slightly.  She leaned up to kiss him, curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt as she tugged him closer to her.  She kissed him deeply and hungrily, enjoying his groan of need when she caught his bottom lip between her teeth. 

 

“As many as you’d like,” she whispered, pulling out of his arms as she started to undo the ties of her breeches.  It didn’t take more than a moment before she stood bare before him, the only thing left on her body was the pendant, resting between her breasts, the steel glinting in the light of the fire.  Gendry swallowed thickly when her hands started working at the ties to his trousers, a low groan of need slipping past his lips as she tugged off his shirt and raked her nails gently across his chest. 

 

When they were left in nothing but the necklaces he’d forged for them, she curled her fingers through his pulling him down with her into the furs of their bed.  She made sure her blacksmith knew just how much she appreciated his hard work, giving him payment for his hours in kisses and in hands running over fevered skin.  As they laid side by side in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Gendry took a moment to admire his she-wolf once more, his heart leaping at the sight of her laying naked at his side with nothing but the bull pendant adorning her neck. 

 

He would have to make her weapons more often.

 


	29. The Bitter Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya (mostly)
> 
> Saying goodbye was never going to be easy.

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Dawn came too quickly the following morning.  There was an air of sorrow that hung around the castle like mist.  They didn’t speak, they just dressed in silence.  Arya reached for her belt, pausing for a moment.  She lifted her belt, undoing the frog that kept Needle always at her side.  She picked up the new blade from her desk, strapping the leather around the sheath.  This new blade was yet unnamed.  She’d need to spend more time with it before she could give it a proper name.  She didn’t miss Gendry’s lingering smile when he noticed the sword at her hip.  She still wore the bull pendant, feeling the weight of it against her skin under her shirt. 

 

She tucked Needle into her pack with some spare shirts and trousers.  Gendry didn’t have quite as much.  He packed all his clothes into his bag, lifting his Warhammer and pausing in the doorway.  The fire was dying, but it would not be rebuilt.  They would not be returning for some time. _If ever_.  Arya didn’t like that thought, but it was definitely a possibility.  She might never see this room again, and when she had longed to leave when she was a girl, now she longed to stay. 

 

Gendry must have seen the sadness in her face, because he reached for her hand, curling his fingers through hers gently.  He’d come to love this room over the last few days.  He’d miss that feather bed, and the warmth from the fireplace.  Arya squeezed his hand gently in return, letting out a sigh before she led them out into the hall.  Nymeria was already waiting outside when she pulled the door closed behind her.  The soft _thud_ of the wood pressing against the stone shouldn’t have felt so final, but the sound unsettled Arya.  She had a sinking feeling she wouldn’t be returning here. 

 

They made their way down to the courtyard, the rest of the castle alive with movement but quiet like the crypts.  The normal morning chatter was missing, a somber tone coloring the gray morning.  Men loaded their horses while their wives bit back tears and kissed them for what might be the last time.  Families parted, unsure if they’d meet again. Knights and nobles got raven scrolls sent when they died in battle.  When the common men marched off to war, they were dead until the day they returned.  The women of the north had learned long ago to band together when the men went off to war.  They would survive the winter together, and if the men came home, then they would celebrate.  If they didn’t, life marched on. 

 

Daenerys had already left to fly to Dragonstone with her children, but Jon had not yet left for WhiteHarbor.  His horse was readied, but Arya could read the reluctance on his face.  She watched as his gaze swept over the courtyard, and she could see the longing there.  This had always been his home, and yet he’d always been unwelcome at the same time.  He had fond memories of playing with Arya and Robb and Bran in the courtyard, and bitter ones of the angry eyes of Catelyn Tully, hating him for simply breathing.  Good or bad, he clung to those memories, and leaving Winterfell again made him ache. 

 

Arya felt the same battle within her.  The memory of the dead haunted her. The ruined walls were a harsh reminder of what they had fought and what they had lost.  So many of her best memories of her childhood had been made here, and definitely the best of her adult life.  She’d finally been reunited with her family, but war and politics were pulling them apart again.  She wondered if she’d ever see Sansa and Jon together again.  As if on cue, the red she-wolf stepped into the courtyard, still every bit a proper Lady.  Sansa and Jon had been butting heads over Daenerys lately, but the redhead still hugged their brother tightly as they whispered quiet goodbyes to each other.

 

Arya worked on fastening her pack to her horse’s saddle, though she watched her siblings out of the corner of her eye.  Jon and Sansa broke apart, the pair each letting out a soft resigned sigh.  A low whine came from the doorway, the scarred nose of Ghost poking out from the great hall.  The white wolf was seven years old now, and his years had been hard ones.  He slept by the fireplace now more than he used to.  His legs ached now sometimes, more than they used to.  He padded across the courtyard towards Jon, rubbing up against his boy’s side.  A sad smile crossed Jon’s face as he knelt, wrapping his arms around the white furred direwolf. 

 

Ghost let out another whine as he rubbed his muzzle against Jon’s head, tail wagging slowly as he licked at his face.  Jon fondled his good ear gently, clinging to the great wolf for a few more moments before he pulled back.  Arya almost missed it, but she saw the faintest trail of a tear disappear into Jon’s beard.

 

“Make sure you keep Sansa safe boy… Stay…” Arya could hear the pain in his words as he ordered the wolf to stay behind.  Jon sighed, closing his eyes as he pressed his forehead against the great direwolf’s.  Ghost closed his red eyes, letting out another whine before the pair broke apart.  Ghost dipped his head, turning away from his boy to take his place beside the Lady of Winterfell.  He would keep her safe until his boy came back for him.  He would protect the pack when his boy could not.  Jon rose, locking eyes with Sansa.

 

“Take good care of him… he’s earned a rest,” He choked out.  Arya could see him clench his jaw against the tears that threatened to come to his eyes.  The tears did roll down Sansa’s face as they looked at each other.  She reached down, stroking Ghosts head tenderly, giving the wolf a small smile.  With Ser Brienne and Ghost to defend her, she’d never need to fear for her life again.

 

“I promise…” She said, nodding to her brother.  Jon turned away, climbing onto his horse.  He turned the beast towards the main gates, pausing to look back over his shoulder at those he was leaving behind.  One more look, maybe the last.  He turned away, nudging his steed and starting through the gates, the band of soldiers he was leading following suit.  Arya watched his back until he turned out of view, her eyes fixing on the teary-eyed form of her sister.

 

“Sansa…” She didn’t realize she was running until she collided with her sister, wrapping her arms around the taller woman.  Sansa hugged her back just as fiercely, burring her face into her little sister’s dark hair. 

 

“I hate this… both of you riding off to war.  I feel like I’ll never see you again.” The taller woman said, tears spilling down her cheeks as she squeezed her sister closer.  Arya sighed, resting her head against Sansa’s shoulder, closing her eyes tightly. 

 

“You might not…” It was quiet and painful, but it was the truth.  They were riding off to war, and war meant death.  There was no guarantee that either one would make it back alive. Sansa’s shoulder’s shook with a soft sob.  The redhead closed her eyes, tears falling into Arya’s hair as they embraced in the courtyard. 

 

“Don’t say that” she begged, her words a pained whisper.  She knew what happened at war, but the idea of losing them both again made her heart break.  She didn’t want to be alone in Winterfell when she got the raven scroll informing her of their deaths.  She wanted them to come home. Arya pulled back from her sister’s embrace, looking up at the redheaded woman.  She reached out, taking her hands and squeezing gently. Tears still rolled down Sansa’s cheeks, but she still met Arya’s gaze

 

“I wish we had more time… I wish I’d had time to really know who you grew up to be.” The words were quiet and sad.  They’d only been together for a few short weeks.  So much time had been spent preparing for war and dealing with the aftermath.  They’d had time to talk, and they’d grown closer that they’d ever been as girls, but now it was cut short. 

 

“I do to…” Sansa whispered, squeezing Arya’s hands in return. Sansa stepped closer, leaning her forehead down to rest against her little sister’s, standing there with her in silence for several moment.  They’d always bickered as girls.  Sansa had dreamed of being a proper lady, Arya had dreamed of running off and living with the wolves.  Arya had never been a pretty or as graceful as Sansa, even when she had tried.  Their time in Kings Landing hadn’t helped.  None of that mattered anymore though.  Time had changed them both.  They both became what they needed to be to survive.  The two she-wolves of Winterfell, parting once more. 

 

“Please come home” Arya’s breath hitched at the words, and she felt her own lip quiver as she stood with Sansa in the courtyard.  A couple stray tears rolled down her cheeks, dropping onto her leather tunic.  She wanted to stay so badly, but the capitol called.  War called.  Cersei called.  Vengeance called.  Vengeance for their father, their mother, their brothers.  If she returned, it would be with vengeance served for their family at long last.

 

“I’ll try” Arya whispered, breathing out a short sigh.  Sansa pulled away first, both women reaching up to wipe away their tears.  Sansa curled her fingers into the scruff of Ghost’s neck again, taking steadying comfort in the presence of the white wolf.  It was almost as though some of Jon remained, so long as Ghost was there to protect her.  Arya turned away, crossing the courtyard and climbing onto her horse with ease.  Gendry had already mounted, though he looked much less comfortable with his seat atop the steed. 

 

Arya turned to look at Sansa once more, their eyes meeting one final time.  Arya nodded once, Sansa returning the gesture before the younger sister turned away.  She nudged her horse into a trot, Nymeria falling in step beside her gelding.  The horse flinched at first, but Nymeria held herself calmly, her ears relaxed, tail drooped low.  She wasn’t there to hunt, and eventually Arya’s horse understood.  The army was still gathering, the commanders rousing their men from sleep as they started to break down the camp around Winterfell.  The three of them rode past the shuffling ranks down the Kings Road. 

 

Arya couldn’t help herself as she looked over her shoulder at the castle as it grew smaller in the distance.  Her heart ached in her chest as the ruined walls and towers started to vanish from view.  She wasn’t sure she’d ever see the castle again.  Wasn’t sure if she’d see Sansa again.  She wasn’t sure of what the next weeks would bring as they rode down south to war.  One hand wandered to the pommel of her new sword, rubbing her thumb over the wolfs head as they rode.

 

She had finally come to terms with being Arya Stark.  She’d reclaimed her name from the Faceless Men, she’d made her way back home, she’d found her family again.  She’d fought and bled for them.  She’d faced death itself and come through alive, for them.  She was finally Arya Stark, and she was riding away from her home once more.  She let out a sigh, turning her eyes back forward, fixing her gaze on the road ahead.  There was nowhere to go but forward now. 

 

She was snapped from her thoughts by a gentle hand on her forearm.  She looked over to see Gendry leaning towards her from his horse, even though he half looked like he was going to fall off.  He gave her a sad smile before releasing her arm and leaning back up, looking a little wobbly for a moment before he found his seat again.  Arya let the smallest of smiles settle over her lips as she looked at him.  she glanced from him to her right, at the she-wolf that ran beside her. 

 

She rode to war, but at least she didn’t ride alone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried as I wrote this. Ghost is a good boye and he deserved all the pets. I didn't even intend to include that moment when I started this chapter, but then I remembered how they left last time, and I hated it, so I fixed it.


	30. The Long March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Arya and Gendry ride south with the Hound and the Northern forces.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

He hated riding.  He especially hated riding towards Kings Landing.  He really especially hated riding towards Kings Landing with the Hound scowling at him every single time he touched Arya.  He’d never known Sandor Clegane to care about anyone, but the way that his eyes followed her was protective. _Fatherly._   Arya had glossed over some of her travels with the Hound, but he knew they’d had a tumultuous past.  They’d killed together, protected each other, and the way she teased him without fear spoke to the nature of their strange friendship.  There was an understanding between them that he couldn’t quite grasp.  Aside from killing and sarcasm, he had difficulty finding a reason they’d get on so well. 

 

Sandor had taken to scowling across the fire at him when they camped each night.  Nymeria would lie down, Gendry would settle back against her side, and Arya would lounge between his knees with her back pressed against his chest.  Between the direwolf and his she-wolf and the heat of the fire, Gendry didn’t feel the chill of the winter air.  He always felt the ice of the Hound’s eyes from across the blaze.  He’d never been nervous about Jon.  Jon had accepted him, albeit with some reluctance. The Hound made him nervous.  Every time Arya pulled him in for a kiss, he could feel that scowl on the back of his head. 

 

They’d been on the road for more than two weeks, and the days were growing progressively warmer.  Winter was still settling in, but the further south they went, the less the snows of the north reached their icy tendrils south.  He could tell that Arya was growing restless as the sun hung high overhead.  Nymeria was feeling it as well, circling Arya’s horse with growing unease.  Gendry wasn’t surprised when Arya announced that she’d race Nymeria and then loop back, watching as the two she-wolves bolted down the Kings Road, immediately neck in neck with Arya on horseback and Nymeria at her side.

 

Gendry watched after them until they raced past a bend in the road and dipped out of his view.  He was about to kick up his horse to follow them when he heard the hoofbeats of another rider approaching him from behind.  He glanced over his shoulder at the hulking figure of the Hound riding towards him.  The Hound scowled as he stared ahead, his eyes fixing on the young blacksmith.  Their horses fell in line on the Kings Road, Gendry keeping his gaze fixed forward.  He knew the Hound didn’t like it when people stared.

 

“You gonna hurt her?” Gendry was surprised when the Hound spoke, turning his head to look at the older man’s scarred visage.  Clegane was scowling at him now.  He raised his own dark brows, looking back forward.  He didn’t want to let the Hound see how intimidated he was.

 

“Why do you care?” He quipped back, adjusting his grip on the reigns of his horse. 

 

“Answer the fucking question boy” The Hound snarled at him.  They’d got along decently, especially after he’d made the Hound that axe for the battle at Winterfell.  It was clear the the Hound didn’t particularly care for his relationship with Arya though.  He watched over her protectively, even though she didn’t need protecting anymore. Gendry shook his head, looking back to the Hound’s mangled face.

 

“No, never...” He said, meeting the Hound’s gaze.  He wasn’t lying, that was for certain.  He’d never do anything to hurt Arya, if he could help it.  Sometimes he made stupid decisions or said stupid things, but he’d never hurt her on purpose. The Hound snorted in response, raking his eyes over Gendry before looking back forward, the smallest of smiles flickering across the older man’s face, though he hid it quickly.

 

“Good.  I’d have to chop your fucking cock off if you did.” The words were gruff and growly, but less of a threat than the other man intended.  He could see the hint of fondness in the older man’s eyes.  Gendry let out a soft chuckle, his lips settling into a smirk as he regarded the older fighter.

 

“You care about her”

 

“Fuck you” The Hound snapped, whipping his head around to glower at Gendry.  The blacksmith took it in stride.  That sharp of a response only served as proof of his words.  The more the Hound protested, the more Gendry was convinced of it.

 

“‘spose she’s as close as you’ve ever had to a daughter… you look at her like a father” Gendry quipped, baiting the dog.  He was playing a dangerous game.  Something had got into him that day, usually he’d never have dared talk back at the Hound.  How could he have known that the Hound had pretended to be Arya’s father while they traveled for some months.  In ways, he’d acted as a father to her, and she’d left him to die on that hill anyway. Things were complicated.

 

“One more word out of your mouth, I’ll cut your fucking tongue out” Now that was a threat Gendry believed.  Shrugged his shoulders, keeping his mouth shut completely.  He looked at the hound, raising his brows at the other man.  Clegane scowled at him, rolling his dark eyes.

 

“Oh, now you’re gonna be a mute cunt on me?” Gendry shrugged again dramatically, pointing at his mouth, making miming motions to having his tongue cut out, shaking his head emphatically.  He couldn’t help the smile that cracked over his face as he teased the Hound.  Another roll of the eyes and a frustrated growl came from Celgane as he turned back forward, scowling at the ears of his horse. 

 

“Fuck you.  You’re mad to fuck the Stark bitch, but I’ll gut you if you hurt her” He grumbled, narrowing his eyes at the blacksmith.  One more threat, just for good measure it seemed.  Gendry nodded, figuring that it was probably safe to speak now as long as he kept the teasing to a minimum.  Teasing the Hound was a dangerous game, and he preferred to keep his tongue inside his mouth. 

 

“You’ve made that clear, but she’d probably beat you to it.” He said, hearing a snort of laughter from his left, looking over to see the Hound shaking his head with a wry smile on his face. 

 

“Wouldn’t be surprised” He said, and Gendry swore he could hear a hint of pride in the Hound’s voice.  No more teasing for today, he preferred to stay alive. 

 

“Try not to die in the battle, I don’t want to have to hear her whining about your death forever.” The Hound dug his heels into the sides of his horse, spurning the beast forward, leaving Gendry behind.  That was about as close to acceptance as Gendry figured he’d ever get from the Hound. Gendry shook his head at nothing in particular, a smile crossing his face as the figure of Arya appeared in the distance, flanked by Nymeria.  The pair came trotting back towards him, her cheeks tinged pink and her hair windswept from her race with Nymeria. The grin on her face made his heart race.  He loved seeing her happy like this.

 

“Who won?” Gendry knew the wolves were fast, but Arya’s gelding had speed and stamina. 

 

“Nymeria… Direwolves have no problem outrunning a horse… What did the Hound want with you? He just rode past me and I heard him grumbling and calling you a ‘stupid bull’.” She said, raising her brows at him, her smile playful and teasing.  Gendry smiled back at her briefly, but the look slipped from his face as a thought crossed his mind.  He looked back at her, furrowing his brows ever so slightly as he met her gray eyes.

 

“Why did you take him off your list?” Arya’s eyes hardened ever so slightly, and she looked back forward.  Suddenly she’d slipped back into the cool mask that she usually only wore in front of people.  It was a mask that had answers to questions that upset her, even if the answers were lies.

 

“I left him for dead, I don’t need to list the dead.” She glanced at him, one brow raised at him, searching his face.  She was trying to see if he believed her lie.  He raised his own brows at her, fixing her with his blue gaze.  He couldn’t lie to her, but over the last few days he’d started to learn how to pick the lies out of her face.

 

“Arya…” She sighed, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly, the indifferent mask slipping off her face.  She furrowed her brows, adjusting her grip on the reigns a bit, chewing her bottom lip as she looked for the right words.  

 

“Things were complicated… I hated him for a time.  We were never friends, but we have… an understanding.  We both have our list, his was just shorter than mine” Sandor understood her need to finish what she had started.  He spent his life waiting for the day when he could finally kill his brother.  She’d been training for almost half of hers to be able to kill Cersei and anyone who threatened her family. 

 

“The Mountain… he’s on your list too.” Gendry had heard her say that list a thousand times over when they were children.  He knew it was much shorter now. Most of the names had been crossed off, many by her own hand.  She let out a soft sigh, an annoyed frown settling over her face. 

 

“Yes… the one name I suppose isn’t really mine to take.  It should be Sandor.”  She had no real right to claim the Mountain for Death.  Sandor had the greatest need for revenge against the man.  What Ser Gregor had done, to Elia Martel, to his own flesh and blood, to the people of the Riverlands.  The Mountain deserved his death, and the Hound deserved to be the one to give it to him. 

 

“That leaves Ilynn Payne and Queen Cersei” Gendry listed, looking at Arya’s frowning face.  The list didn’t bright light to her eyes the way it used to.  It looked more and more as though it weighed on her instead of lifted her up the way it had when they were children.  She’d used to whisper the list a hundred times over at night until she fell asleep.  It had made her brave, it had given her a reason to push on.  Now it seemed to drag her down, a duty she had thrust upon herself that she could not shake off.  She shook her head slightly, looking back at him for a moment.

 

“Just Cersei now… Ilynn Payne died when Daenerys burned the Goldroad.  I overheard it from Jamie Lannister.”  Gendry sucked in a short breath at her words, chewing on his own lip as he thought for a long moment.  One step closer, but that step would be the most dangerous one she’d ever take.

 

“Just Cersei…” He said quietly, a frown settling over his own face.  If the battle went their way, there was no way the mad queen would live.  It was unlikely Daenerys would take her as a captive.  If the two came to blows, there was no way the mad queen would stand against Drogon.  There wasn’t a true need for her to go into the city, if they won, Cersei would die no matter what. 

 

“I hope someone else does it… if it means you come back alive…” He meant what he said, even though he knew she wouldn’t like the words.  Her scowl confirmed it, but he met her gaze with equal strength.  He loved her, but he would not always bow to her fury. 

 

“I need to end this; I need it to be me…” She started to pull that cold mask across her face as she looked back forward, trying to push down the emotions he knew were swirling inside of her.  He sighed, shaking his head at her.  She needed to realize that face didn’t work on him anymore.  He’d seen too much of the real Arya Stark to believe that carefully curated lie.

 

“I know you do… but I’m not going to pretend to like it.” She whipped her head towards him, a scowl settling over her face for just a moment as she narrowed her eyes.  She gave a soft snort, looking back forward, lifting her chin defiantly. 

 

“Good; you’re shit at lying.” She quipped back at him; her tone harsher than normal.  Up until now, he hadn’t expressed his true displeasure at her goal.  She’d known that he wanted her to stay away from the fighting completely.  She’d known that he wanted her to just be with him, but he knew she had to finish this.  He’d just never said that he didn’t want her to before.  They rode in silence for the rest of the afternoon until they stopped to make camp for the night. 

 

That night, when he reclined against Nymeria and Arya snuggled into his chest, the Hound didn’t glare at him from across the fire.  He still kept a watchful eye over them and the surrounding area, but he didn’t glower at the blacksmith anymore.  Apparently, Gendry’s answers had been enough from their chat that afternoon.  The Hound didn’t say more than a few words to Gendry for the rest of their ride south.  They camped in a thick forest a half days march from Kings Landing.  They would march to the city once Jon Snow arrived. 

 

Jon Snow did not arrive.  Instead, a rider brought a letter, stamped with the Stark seal.  The messenger would only release the paper to Arya, no matter how viciously the Dothraki had threatened the man.  The captains gathered around Arya as she uncurled the scroll.  She read through the message twice in silence before clearing her throat and reading the letter out to the crowd. 

 

_Arya,_

_Our trip to Dragonstone did not go as planned.  Euron’s fleet surprised us in the bay, and Rhaegal was killed with a scorpion bolt.  They destroyed several of the Queen’s ships and took Missandei of Narth as a captive.  Daenerys went to Kings Landing to bargain for Missandei, but Cersei executed her.  Daenerys is preparing for war.  She has agreed to spare the city if they surrender and ring the bells.  Make sure the men know to stop the fighting if the city surrenders._

_I will arrive within two days, and the battle will take place on the third._

_Your Brother,_

_Jon_

 

Arya rolled up the letter, looking at the men gathered around her.  A determined look settled over her face as she regarded them firmly. 

 

“Inform all the men, if the bells ring and the city surrenders, the fighting stops.” She barked, several of the men starting slightly at the commanding tone in her voice.  The presence of the great brown direwolf at her side and her slaying of the Night King made her seem ten feet tall, even though she was only a couple inches over five.  The commanders scurried off to start informing the troops, and Arya tucked the scroll into her pocket. 

 

Jon would be there in two days.  Now they had to wait.

 

 

 


	31. One Last Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> The final evening before the Battle for Kings Landing

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Arya had been restless in the two days they’d made camp outside Kings Landing.  She’d ridden laps around the camp, surveyed the troops, wrestled with Nymeria, and still she was having trouble filling the hours.  Idle time had always been difficult for her.  Somehow, Gendry had found a way to spend his time working at a makeshift forge, putting the final touches on some of the Northman’s weapons.  For two nights now he’d returned to their tent covered in soot and sweat, but she didn’t really mind too much.  She liked it when he smelled like woodsmoke, the scent of it tickling something deep in her core.

 

The sun was setting, and the forest had been plunged into semi darkness, but the darkness had never stopped Arya before.  She practiced her water dancing with her new blade, taking every opportunity to learn her new sword properly. She spun across the bed of dead leaves and twigs, her feet making almost no sound as the twirled through the darkness.  She liked this new blade.  She’d sparred with several of the men with it, and with each use she found it settling into her hand with greater ease.  It was an extension of her arm, in the way any truly good blade should be.  She’d been thinking about a name for her new blade.  Sandor said only cunts named their swords, but she didn’t particularly care.

 

She wasn’t really sure when her eyes had slipped closed during her practicing.  Perhaps it was when night had settled into the forest so deeply that she was practically training in the darkness anyway.  The sound of approaching footsteps made her open her eyes, only to be startled by the bright flames of a torch lighting the clearing she had found to train in.  She stopped her forms, sheathing her blade and turning towards the new arrival.  Gendry appeared out of the darkness, a smile on his face.  Every day he’d taken at least a few minutes to watch her train with her new blade, and every day she saw the pride on his face as she swung the steel he’d so lovingly crafted for her.

 

“Jon’s here” Their breath misted in the cold nighttime air.  Arya hadn’t even realized how chilly it had become.  Judging by the warm cloak wrapped around Gendry’s shoulders, he was feeling the chill already.  Her water dancing had kept her warm, and this cold night was nothing compared to a winter night in the north.  Many of the days were colder than this night.

 

“Good, took him long enough” She fussed, though she didn’t really mean it.  She’d been feeling restless, but every day of rest was one more day that their soldiers would be at their best, and one more day the Golden Company would charge the Mad Queen to defend a city that wasn’t under attack yet.  They walked through the forest back to the captain’s tent where Jon and the other Lords had gathered.  The leader of the Dothraki and the Unsullied commanders were there as well. 

 

Jon turned when Arya pushed open the flap of the tent, stepping into the makeshift war room.  A smile crossed his face and he reached out to pull her into a hug.  He looked better than the last time she’d seen him.  They’d both still borne bruises from their battle against the dead when they left Winterfell almost a month before.  Now they had healed some from the previous war, they were almost ready for another one.  Arya hugged Jon back tightly, stepping away from his embrace to look at the war table.  She raised her brows but said nothing when Jon pulled Gendry into just as tight of a hug, the former King in the North and the blacksmith grasping each other’s arms.  Clearly, they’d come to some understanding between them, Jon didn’t glare at Gendry like he wanted to run him through with Longclaw anymore.

 

The meeting didn’t take long, the plans were simple.  At dawn, the army would march towards the capitol.  They would reach the main gates before noon.  Then they would wait for Daenerys’s signal.  It wasn’t explained what that signal would be, but Arya had a feeling it would be one that the men would know as soon as they saw it.  They would rush the city, but if the bells rang and the city surrendered, the fighting would stop.  The Dothraki especially took offense to this plan, but they relented when Jon declared the order to have come from Daenerys herself. 

 

Arya watched her older brother as he made these battle plans, watching the resigned look on his face as he pushed the concept of surrender to the Dothraki warriors.  As good as fighter as her brother was, he’d never loved it.  He’d killed because he had to, because it was kill or be killed.  She’d killed for the sake of killing, for the joy of watching the life fade from her enemies’ eyes, for the rush of watching the blood pool on the ground below them as they hopelessly tried to cling to life.  Maybe things would have been easier if she hadn’t learned to love killing so much.  Maybe she would have been able to abandon her list, if only that dark itch didn’t rise with so much power in the back of her mind. 

 

Jon dismissed them all back to their tents, ordering them to get some rest much as he had before the Battle for the Dawn.  It didn’t feel quite as bleak as that night had, but there was a certain somber feeling over the camp.  Things might go according to plan tomorrow, they might not.  For many, it would still be their final night.  Even if they won the war, many would not live to see another sunset.

 

Arya returned to their tent, not surprised to find Nymeria lounging outside the tent flap, resting her head on her paws.  She sidestepped the large direwolf, pushing into the tent, closely followed by Gendry.  The tent was illuminated by several candles, and the thick canvas walls kept some of the nighttime chill out of the space.  Gendry sat down on the pile of furs and blankets that was their bed, starting to unlace his boots.  He paused, a frown crossing his face as he looked up at Arya.  She had unbuckled her belt and set it to the side and was working on the ties for her tunic. 

 

“Why didn’t you tell Jon about your plans for tomorrow?” he asked, wiggling his foot out of one boot, then the other.  Arya sighed, shaking her head slightly, pulling off the tunic and letting it drape over her pack.  Jon would have let her be on the front lines with him, but she knew he would have drawn the line at going to the Red Keep.  That castle was about to become one of the least safe places in Westeros, and that’s where she was headed.

 

“He’d just try to stop me” She said, shrugging slightly.  She sat down beside Gendry, unlacing her own boots.  He’d already stripped off his leather trousers and was left in only his breeches and soft undershirt.  He reclined back against the furs, reaching up to toy with a strand of Arya’s hair, a mischievous smile working its way across his face. 

 

“Oh, and I wont?” He teased, raising a brow at her as she shot him a pointed look over her shoulder.  She kicked off her boots, tucking both pairs towards the foot of their bed.  After she wiggled out of her leather trousers, she was left in just her shirt and smallclothes.  She’d never be able to sleep with so little on in the north, but the night was warm enough, especially with Gendry at her side.  She let out a short _hmpf_ and laid down beside him, but with her back facing him.

 

“I thought you knew better than that by now” she teased, looking over her shoulder at him.  He chuckled, scooting closer to her and wrapping one arm around her waist, pulling her back flush up against his chest.  He nuzzled his face into her silky brown hair, pressing a kiss behind her ear.  She shuddered.

 

“I’m a bull, remember?  We’re very stubborn…” He growled out, his voice a husky whisper.  For a man who claimed to be a bull, he sounded awfully like a wolf.  She pressed her body back against his, a blush filling her cheeks as she felt cock pressing against her hips.  She wiggled her hips slightly, a smirk crossing her face as she felt him groan against her skin.

 

“Well then you better give me a good reason to stay” She challenged, smiling when his arm tightened further around her waist.  She gasped softly when his lips descended back down her neck.  He tugged at the string ties around the top of her shirt, loosening it so he could push the neck over the curve of her shoulder.  She closed her eyes, letting out an appreciative groan as he kissed and nibbled along the curve of her shoulder. 

 

She let out a surprised noise when the hand that had been wrapped so firmly around her waist changed its direction and slid lower, beneath her smallclothes.  She couldn’t help it when her back arched as his fingers slipped between her folds, starting to stroke rhythmic circles on her clit.  She ground her hips back against his, enjoying his moans of pleasure.  The attention on her neck grew harsher, the scrape of his teeth on her skin sending shivers through her body.

 

Arya found her breath coming in shorter gasps the longer they ground their bodies together.  She pressed back against him as much as she could, but the combined stimulation of his mouth and his fingers was making her head spin.  She couldn’t stop the moan that fell from her lips when he closed his lips around a soft spot on her shoulder, sucking on the skin to leave a love bite there. her body twitched and arched, her eyes closed tightly as she came, her hips bucking against his fingers. 

 

Arya slumped back against Gendry’s chest, panting softly.  His kisses had turned gentle again, and he had pulled his hand from her smallclothes to pull hug closer.  She turned in his embrace, their bodies chest to chest now.  She kissed him as much as she could, having to pause to catch her breath every few moments.  She barely noticed when his hands pulled up the hem of her shirt, pulling it off over her head, just enjoying the feeling of his hands on her skin. 

 

She let herself get lost in his kisses.  She wasn’t sure how exactly they both ended up naked.  She really didn’t care either, just as long as she got to keep kissing him.  She let him lay her back down on the furs, closing her eyes, raking her fingers through his short black hair.  It had grown in the month they’d been on the Kings Road.  She liked it a little longer.  It gave her something to hold onto.

 

She moaned when his kisses dipped down along her chest to her breasts, biting her lip as he lavished attention from one nipple to the other.  His hands roamed along her sides, one sliding up her chest to trail ever so slightly over the bull pendant that rested against her skin.  She’d only taken it off to bathe since the day he gave it to her.  He’d been the same way with his wolf, it never left from its place around his neck.  Arya let out an impatient whine, curling her legs around Gendry’s hips, pulling his body down closer to hers.

 

 He leaned back up to kiss her resting his forehead against hers for a moment before he pulled back. He shifted the angle of her hips slightly, both of them letting out moans in unison as he pushed his cock into her. Her toes curled and she pulled him closer, kissing him hungrily as she arched up to meet him.  He held himself above her, hands curling into the furs as their bodies ground together. 

 

Gendry tried to move slowly at first, but his control slipped rather quickly.  He panted against her neck as she raked her nails down his back, arms trembling slightly. They collided over and over, their gentle groans giving way to passionate moans as the pleasure spiked between them. He moaned into her neck as he felt her clench around him, her nails digging into his skin as she came again.  She bucked up against him, her body tensing under his.  he didn’t last much longer, moaning out her name as he spilled inside her, both their bodies trembling in the aftermath of their release.

 

Arya draped her arm across Gendry’s chest as she laid at his side, her forehead resting on his shoulder.  They both panted still, trying to catch their breath, the cool night air starting to nip at their flushed skin.  Arya sat up reluctantly, pulling the furs and blankets up over them before settling back down against her blacksmith’s chest.  He reached up to stroke the tips of his fingers up and down her arm slowly, just enjoying the feeling of her skin.  Gendry leaned over, pressing a kiss to Arya’s forehead, closing his eyes.

 

“I love you…” he whispered, nuzzling his nose against her skin gently.  She sighed, a smile crossing her face as his lips brushed across her forehead.

 

“And I love you…” she said in return, closing her eyes.  She pressed a kiss to his chest, letting her fingers rub in slow circles across his skin.  The candles were burning low now, and that warm wonderful exhaustion after making love was working its way over her.  She loved these moments, laying there quietly with him in the dark.  With her eyes closed, she could almost forget they were laying in a tent on the eve of war once again.

 

“When will you leave?” His words were quiet and pained. She felt his arm tighten ever so slightly around her waist, as though he was afraid that she was somehow going to slip from his grasp immediately.  She pressed herself closer to his side, rubbing flat circles on his chest with her palm.  She needed to get inside the city before they closed the main gates, and that meant she needed to be there before the army arrived. 

 

“Before dawn…” She only had a few hours left.  If she had any hope of making it inside the city before they bolted the gates, she’d need to be riding out at least an hour before the sun rose, if not earlier.  She felt him sigh against her skin, his hand stroking along her side gently. 

 

“Stay with me, just a little longer…” Her heart ached at his words, and she pulled back ever so slightly so that she could angle her lips up to meet his.  She kissed him deeply, caressing his cheek.  She only had a few hours left, but there was no better way than to spend them than in his arms.   Gray eyes met blue in the fading light of the candles, and she smiled against his lips as she pulled him closer.  

 

“Of course…”

 

 

 


	32. The Battle of Kings Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Multiple
> 
> The day of the battle of Kings Landing

-  Arya  -

 

 

Arya pulled herself away from her sleeping blacksmith long before the sun began to peak over the horizon.  She’d dressed in the darkness of their tent, carefully tucking the bull pendant against her heart as she dressed.  She looked back to his sleeping face, trailing her gaze over the curve of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw.  She’d almost foolishly woken him when she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.  He’d groaned quietly and turned towards her side of the bed, reaching out for her.  She hoped she came back from this war alive, just so she could see his face again.

 

It had been harder to convince Nymeria to stay than it had been to convince Gendry.  Nymeria usually listened, but she protested that morning.  It was only when Arya told the great she-wolf to stay and protect her bull that the direwolf seemed to let out a resigned sigh.  Nymeria gave Arya a lick to the cheek before she pushed open the flap to the tent, jumping onto the pile of furs and blankets that was called a bed.  She would protect the male one until her girl came back. 

 

Arya left her pack behind at the camp.  They’d still need somewhere to house the soldiers after the city was taken, it would still be there when she returned. _If she returned_.  She rode towards the city, not surprised when a familiar figure appeared, his horse falling in step beside hers.  Arya and the Hound rode in silence for some time.  It was the Hound who broke the silence, and that was only after the sun had peeked above the mountains in the distance and finally shed some light on their forms. 

 

“When did you get a new sword?” He asked, eyeing the wolf’s head pommel at her hip.  He hadn’t paid much attention to her weapon during the ride south, he’d been too busy glaring daggers at the blacksmith for breathing near Arya.  She smiled to herself, one hand moving to rest on the pommel for a moment, caressing over the wood with her gloved fingers. 

 

“Gendry made it for me.  I’m trying to decide what I want to call it.  I’m thinking either Winter’s Bane or Stormbreaker.”  She said, an edge of pride in her voice.  She would kill the Queen with a blade forged by the bastard son of the King.  She was sure there was some sort of poetic irony in there somewhere.  The Queen and Joffrey had tried so hard to erase every single child of Robert Baratheon, but they’d failed miserably.  The last of Robert’s bastards would be the ultimate end of the mad queen.

 

“Only cunts name their swords” The Hound bit back, rolling his eyes at the young woman who rode beside him.  He’d told her the same thing when he’d questioned her about the name of her other sword.  This one was larger, though not by much.  He’d seen her training every day, but he hadn’t noticed the slightly wider blade.  He hoped it was sharp enough to keep her safe.

 

“Only stupid dogs without imagination think only cunts name their swords…” she barked back, a smirk settling over her face as she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.  He scowled and glared forward, urging his horse onward.  They fell into silence as they rode.  They didn’t need to speak, Arya had done enough talking when she’d been a girl and her main goal was to annoy the Hound.  She didn’t need words now.

 

When they could see the city, they left their horses and made their way towards the capitol on foot.  The Hound pulled up his hood, and they blended in with the throng of panicked commoners as they rushed into the city.  They were afraid of stories of Dothraki riders pillaging villages, of Unsullied soldiers wiping out whole towns.  They’d been fed lies by Cersei.  She’d managed to convince the people that they were safer inside the city, as her hostages.  If the city was packed with civilians, perhaps Daenerys wouldn’t burn the city. 

 

They moved with the crowd, pushing past the main gates.  There were several miles of road between the main gate and the Red Keep.  They had a lot of walking to do. 

 

 - - - - -

 

-  Gendry  -

 

Gendry woke when the sounds of the camp reached through the walls of the tent.  He grumbled, reaching out for Arya, but her place beside him was cold.  She’d been gone for a few hours now.  He sat up, rubbing his eyes and letting out a yawn.  He was surprised to be faced with big golden eyes when he did open his.  Nymeria laid at the foot of the bed, her head resting on her paws, watching him with her golden gaze.  Arya must have told her to stay behind.  He understood; it would be impossible to move through the city with a massive direwolf at her side.

 

He reached out to fondle Nymeria’s ears affectionately before he got up.  He pulled on his clothes and boots, strapping on his armor.  He tied an extra knot in the leather cord that held his wolf pendant, just so it wouldn’t accidentally come undone.  He didn’t want to lose it during the battle.  He left the tent with Nymeria on his heels. He tried to tell her to stay, but she didn’t take commands from him.  She had orders from her girl to protect him, and that’s what she would do. 

 

Nymeria followed him to his horse.  The gelding shied away at first but relaxed eventually.  Normally Nymeria walked closer to Arya’s horse, not his. A hand on his shoulder pulled him away from his steed, the concerned face of Jon Snow coming into sharp focus.

 

“Where’s Arya” Jon wasn’t used to seeing Gendry more than a few yards from Arya at any given time, let alone preparing to mount a horse with her nowhere in sight.  Gendry sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair, looking down at his boots.  No point in lying to Jon now, she had had several hours head start on them. 

 

“Gone… she went to the Red Keep to kill Cersei” Gendry almost winced when he saw the fury erupt in Jon’s eyes.  The former King in the North snarled at the blacksmith, looking every bit a wolf as his little sister.  His wolf was subdued and more controlled, but no less ferocious when it came to light. 

 

“You let her go to the Red Keep?” He shouted, turning away from Gendry, his fists clenching as he took deep breaths to try to control his outrage.  This man claimed to love her, and yet he’d let her ride off to what would certainly be her death.  Gendry scowled at Jon, finishing tightening a strap on his horses saddle before turning after the other man. 

 

“You think I could have stopped her?  She would have used that blade on me if I’d tried.  No one can tell her what she can’t do anymore.” His voice was raised too, his tone just as accusatory as Jon’s had been.  How dare he be blamed for her stupid list?  He’d begged her to stay, to let someone else do the job, but she’d always refused.  Jon deflated, his shoulders sagging as he turned back to the blacksmith. He ran his hands over his face, shaking his head. 

 

“You’re right… not that she ever listened to anyone before anyway…” he said, sighing as he looked at the blacksmith.  That girl, that young woman, meant a great deal to both of them.  Jon knew that if Gendry had been able to keep her from harm, he would have.  He also knew that Arya would never have let anyone stop her from something she wanted, and more than anything he saw that she wanted revenge.  It hurt for him to see such darkness in his little sister, but life had not been kind to her.  She’d had to embrace the darkness to survive long enough to find the light.  Now she had to finish what that darkness demanded of her.

 

Nymeria walked at the front of the command procession, Jon and Gendry riding side by side directly behind her.  They gathered on the hill behind the lines of the Unsullied and Dothraki.  Gendry curled his fingers into Nymeria’s fur as he looked over the battlefield.  There were rows upon rows of Golden Company soldiers.  They easily outnumbered all their combined forces.  A unified, well trained, well paid, well rested army.  To say that Gendry was concerned would be putting it lightly.  It was barely mid-day when the armies had finished taking up their positions. Now all there was to do was wait.

 

 - - - - -

 

-  Jon  -

 

 

Jon knew it had begun when he heard the first roar of Drogon echo off the seaside cliffs.  From his position on the hill, he could see the smoking ships on the edge of the horizon.  He watched as the great black dragon appeared over the city, raining fire down on the scorpion bolts that were built to pierce his hide.  They were too large and slow for the close combat formation that Dragon had taken, and each one burned quicker than the last. 

 

He heard cheers and shouts from the Unsullied and Dothraki when Daenerys and Drogon rained fire on the soldiers of the Golden Company, blasting open the front gates from the inside.  The standing forces were scattered, and as soon as the flames cleared, their forces charged at the newly made entrance.  He did not cheer.  He marched down the hill, Gendry and Nymeria at his side as he made his way towards the city. 

 

The Dothraki poured in first, swinging their araks to each side, mowing down Lannister soldiers left and right as they wove through the city.  The city shook as Daenerys circled above, dipping down to destroy another line of the scorpion bolts that lined the city walls.  They would certainly have to be rebuilt once the city was taken, but just the outer walls was reasonable damage. This was war after all.  Jon and Gendry walked into the city, Nymeria at their side through the death and flames.  They stopped at the end of a street, face to face with a legion of Lannister soldiers. 

 

Nymeria pressed herself close to Gendry’s side, her lips curled up in a snarl as she started down the enemy soldiers.  Jon glanced at the she-wolf, his heart aching for Ghost in that moment.  He missed the feeling of fighting at his wolf’s side.  He’d been trying to hard to be a dragon lately, he’d forgotten how much he’d loved being a wolf. 

 

He could hear shouts from around the city, the common people crying out for the city guard to ring the bells.  Daenerys landed Drogon on a ruined tower, the great black creature letting out an earsplitting roar as they regarded the city.  When the bells rang, when the city surrendered, the fighting would stop.  Dany would take the keep, and the city would be spared.  They waited.

 

And they waited.

 

The bells did not ring.  The stalemate was broken by a deep rumble, the deep foundations of the city rumbling before huge streams of widefire exploded through the stone.  The emerald green flames devoured the forms of the Unsullied and Dothraki.  Emboldened by the writhing forms of their burning foes, the Lannister men charged, their courage renewed.  They cared not that the city burned around them.  If they were to die, they might as well fight. 

 

The two armies collided, fighting starting up all over the city as the roar of battle carried through the streets.  That roar was interrupted every few seconds by another explosion, then several caches all going off at once.  Cersei had seen the fleet, she had seen the scorpions, and she had known she had lost.  So, she’d decided to burn the city herself.  If she couldn’t be the Queen, at least she could take the city down with her.

 

Jon watched as Drogon tossed his head, the great dragon letting out a furious roar, a gout of flame pouring from his maw before he took to the air.  For a moment, it looked like Daenerys was flying for the red keep, but the dragon turned, angling down.  Fire poured from his mouth, raking through the streets and the lines of Lannister soldiers, ripping through houses and buildings.  He spun and swung his sword and watched in horror as Drogon swooped overhead.  Everyone’s worry had been right all along.  Arya, Sansa, Varys, Tyrion, they’d all known it would happen.

 

_She was burning the city._

 

 - - - - -

 

-  Arya  -

 

 

The castle rumbled as Arya stepped into the map room.  The ceiling had been torn off by Drogon at some point, and bits of stone crumbled onto the painted floor. They both stopped in the center of the room, looking up at desolated keep before them.  Arya could hear the dragon roar in the distance, another boom signaling the destruction of another portion of the castle.  Her attention snapped to Clegane when he spoke.  They’d not spoken in hours, just walked through the city side by side, slipping into the castle where others didn’t see.  She didn’t expect the words that came from him now.

 

“Go home, girl.  The fire will get her, or one of the Dothraki.  Or maybe that dragon will eat her. It doesn't matter. She's dead. And you'll be dead too if you don't get out of here.”  He whipped around to face her, and for the first time in a very long time, Arya saw fear in the Hound’s eyes.  He turned back to the crumbling castle, but not before she saw the flash of determination on his face.  she felt that very same determination. 

 

“I'm going to kill her,” she growled, moving to step around him, whipping back when he grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back.  She looked up at him with shock on her face.  She thought he understood? He was the only one who truly did.  She _needed_ to do this.  Didn’t she?

 

“You think you wanted revenge a long time? I've been after it all my life.  It's all I care about and look at me.”  He growled out.  She yanked her arm out of his grip, looking back over her shoulder at the passage that led to the throne room. She was so close now, just a few hundred yards and she’d be there with Cersei.  She’d finally be able to get her revenge.

 

“Look at me!” He roared, forcing her gaze back to his face.  She looked up at him, the anger fading from her eyes as she watched his face.  That anger that he so often wore on his face faded away.  What was underneath was only sadness, and the pain that she saw in his eyes shocked her to her core.  His gray eyes met hers, a pleading look in his eyes that she’d never seen before.

 

“You wanna be like me?” his voice had softened some, his hand gripping her shoulder.  She felt the sadness in him, just from his eyes boring into hers.  He took a step closer, his massive hand resting on the back of her head, tipping her gaze up to meet his. 

 

“You come with me; you die here.” Arya looked up at him, swallowing thickly at his words.  She glanced around the room quickly, her eyes settling back on his face.  He was right.  The castle was coming down.  Cersei would die, by fire or sword or by the keep falling out from under her feet.  It didn’t matter how, not anymore.  Not now that the city burned.  She shook her head ever so slightly, suddenly feeling the loss of his presence as his hand left her neck.  She’d never in all her days expected to miss anything about the Hound. 

 

She heard his footsteps walking away from her, up the short set of stairs as he crossed the room.  She closed her eyes for just a moment and turned, looking back at him. 

 

“Sandor.”  She didn’t usually call him by his name, but this was goodbye.  He was off to finish his list.  She was off to find a new reason to live, though she already had a very good reason lingering in the back of her mind, weighing on her skin in the form of a bull’s head pendant.  He turned, looking back at her one more time.  Gray eyes locked with gray as they stood in the crumbling map room.  She wished it didn’t have to end like this.  She always found herself wishing there was more time.

 

“Thank you.” she said quietly, her brows pulling up and together as she regarded him sadly.  She’d never regarded him as a friend, though perhaps she should have.  He nodded once before he broke their gaze, turning away from her and heading deeper into the keep.  Her heart ached and she felt tears threatening to well at her eyes.  Another rumble of the castle snapped her back into focus as she turned back the way they had come.  She needed to get out of the castle before Daenerys burned it to the ground.  She had someone to get back to.  She had a reason to live.

 

 - - - - -

 

-  Daenerys  -

 

 

She had waited for the bells.  She had waited just like she had promised.  The bells had never rung.  Cersei had waited until her soldiers were within the walls and victory was at hand to deploy her trap.  The Mad Queen had burned everyone, soldiers, commoners, Lannisters, Dothraki, Unsullied.  Everyone.  The sight of the wildfire had broken that dam within her.  That fury she’d been working so hard to control had come spilling forth as she watched the city burn.  As soon as the green flames roared through the streets, the fighting began again anew. 

 

Drogon roared, his fury matching her own.  With blinding rage, they turned their attention towards the red keep.  They took to the sky, but the swarms of red armored Lannister troops kept drawing their attention away from the castle.  They dove, unleashing a torrent of flames upon the enemy troops, the blast cutting into buildings as they decimated the enemy soldiers. It was war, there would always be casualties. 

 

When the main branches of the armies had been burned, and the city lay in ruins, they turned their attention towards the Red Keep.  Towers fell, and with their claws, they tore the roof off of the throne room.  Glass shattered and stone rained down upon the polished floor, now covered with rubble and ash.  Their wings beat at the air as they regarded the sight before them.

 

The Lioness stood behind her brother, the Lion clutching his sword in his left hand as he pointed it at the dragon.  As though as sword could harm them now. They landed, fixing their gaze on the trembling humans below.  They said the word together, the high valyrian tumbling from Daenerys’s lips as the flames began to rumble up from deep within Drogon’s chest.  The reign of Cersei Lannister, first of her name, was ended.

 

 “ _Dracarys…_ ”

 

The dragons roared.  The lions screamed. 

 

 


	33. Through Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya/Gendry
> 
> Arya runs for her life as the city burns. 
> 
> Written listening to Hell or High Water by The Rescues

-  Arya  -

 

 

It felt like she had to make her way down a thousand steps.  It didn’t help that the ceiling was increasingly starting to drop bits of rubble onto her head.  Arya ran down the spiral towers of the Red Keep, bursting from a side door out into the courtyard.  Screams filled her ears as she stepped into the din.  The Dothraki had made it to the red keep, and they spared no one.  They cut down anyone in their path, swinging their curved blades as they screamed among the flames. 

 

Already blood stained the stones of the keep, making a sick splashing sound under Arya’s boots as she raced down the steps.  It was easy to get swept up in the crowd, and suddenly Arya could feel their collective panic washing over her.  The bursts of fire, the heat of the flames, the stench of burning flesh, the jostling of so many bodies as they tried to flee the carnage behind them.  Her feet carried her forward unwillingly.  If she stopped now, she died.  The dragon was right behind them, destroying huge swaths of the city in single sweeps. 

 

An unseen chunk of rubble became her undoing.  It knocked her foot out from underneath her, and suddenly she was down.  Bodies kept shoving past. Feet pressed on her arms and her back and her hands.  A boot clipped her head, stunning her.  She barely heard the voice, but she felt the hands around her wrists, yanking her upward.  She looked into the scared green eyes of a woman, scrambling to her feet with her help, gripping her hand tightly.

 

She tried to follow, she really did, but the tide of bodies tugged them in different directions.  Their fingers slipped apart, and she was jostled down a different side road.  She ran, harder and faster than she’d ever run in her life.  Harder than she’d run from the Waif.  Harder than she ran from the weights.  The dead had knives and hands that grasped and clawed.  Fire didn’t give you a chance to fight back.  She could only run from the fire.

 

She could hear the beat of the dragon’s wings, feel the gusts that came from behind.  She surged forward, hearing screams and cracks from behind her.  She can feel the ground rolling beneath her feet as the stones are torn from the ground with the force of the dragon’s fire.  She was still running, still trying to get away, when the ground heaved beneath her feet and suddenly the stone was approaching far to quickly.  She didn’t have time to throw up her hands to break her fall.  She didn’t hear the crack when her head collided with the stone.  She heard nothing

 

Everything was black.

 

\- - - - -  

 

-  Gendry  -

 

 

Things changed when the ground rumbled and shook and green flames burst up through the stones.  He’d been swinging his hammer, Nymeria at his side, barely feeling the strain of battle.  It had changed when the ground buckled and began spewing fire.  Suddenly fire filled the streets, smoke clogging the air.  The Lannister men who had been so still moments before lunged forward, colliding with the Unsullied and Northmen in the street. 

 

He fought the living now with the same ferocity he’d fought the dead the month prior.  There wasn’t as much at stake aside from his life, but his life had suddenly become worth something in the last month and a half.  There was a young woman somewhere in this city who was trying to work her way from the Red Keep back through this chaos and to the safety of the space beyond the walls.  He fought for her.  He fought so that he might get to see her again when the smoke and dust cleared. 

 

He coughed at the smoke, blocking a blow with the handle of his hammer before he swung the mighty tool, knocking a Lannister soldier to the side like a ragdoll.  He was knocked back suddenly by a blast of fire, the dragon breathing down a row of flame on the Lannister soldiers.  She’d made her target, but she’d almost roasted Jon and Gendry in the process, the pair just a few feet from the blaze. 

 

The stench of burning flesh filled the air, and Gendry almost thought he was going to be sick as he staggered away from the burning bodies.  He leaned against a wall, Nymeria taking a moment to press against his side, watching around him for any threats.  He looked at the chaos around them, at the burning bodies, the crumbling city, the dragon flying overhead.  Her words echoed in his mind.  The promise that he’d made to her those weeks before.  She’d somehow known the darkness inside the Dragon Queen would win out.  She had known it would end in fire and blood.

 

_Promise me, you’ll get out_

 

He let out a sigh, scanning the crowd for the black hair of the former King in the North.  His eyes met Jon’s and he saw the pain there.  The woman he loved was burning the city.  Gendry turned his gaze to the gate where they’d entered, looking back to Jon.  Understanding flashed across Jon’s face as he sheathed his sword, starting to drag the Northmen away from the battle.

 

When Jon yelled for the men to fall back, they listened.  They started to run towards the gap in the wall that had once been the main gate.  Stone cracked and crumbled around them, piles of bodies lined the streets, some mangled, some reduced to ash.  Gendry gripped Nymeria’s fur for strength as he ran from the city, trying to keep his eyes away from the carnage.  It was too late, the images of the burned bodies had seared themselves into his mind.  Of hands grasping onto loved ones, of fingers outstretched as they tried in vain to block the flames. 

 

He ran even though his legs burned, Nymeria and Jon as his side as they moved through the wreckage.  He didn’t stop running even when they did make it to the entrance.  He kept running until he was several hundred yards from the city.  He needed to get beyond the damage, where smoke didn’t clog the air, where the stink of the dead didn’t reach.  He couldn’t get far enough, but when he finally sank down on his knees, the air he breathed wasn’t tinged with smoke and blood anymore.  He sat back on his rear, turning to look at the crumbling, burning city.  His heart ached as he gazed at the chaos, his throat feeling tight, as though he couldn’t breathe.  She was still in there, with soldiers and fires and a dragon between them.  He prayed to all the gods, old and new, and she’d find her way out alive.  He wasn’t sure he’d know how to live if she didn’t.

 

He didn’t even notice the tears that rolled down his face as the city burned. 

 

\- - - - -

 

-  Arya  -

 

Pain

 

The pain was overwhelming.  It felt as though someone had driven a spike behind her eye and was twisting it.  Her whole head throbbed.  There was something hot on her face, she could feel it trickling across her skin. Consciousness started to fade, the pain beginning to numb as the burning in her lungs reached critical mass. 

 

_breathe_

 

Her mouth opened and she gasped for air, though what filled her lungs was more ash than she wanted.  All she could see was dust and smoke around her.  A cough ripped through her chest and she rolled over onto her hands and knees.  Bits of rubble fell from her clothes as she pushed herself up to standing.  She staggered, her head spinning painfully as her vision swam.  She pressed one hand to her head, able to feel the gash even underneath her glove.  She’d taken a heavy blow. 

 

She coughed again, leaning on a piece of rubble, spitting out blood and ash as she looked at the chaos around her.  The cracking of the belltower snapped her back to reality and she took off running.  Her steps were uneven on the broken stones, and her vision spun with every movement, but she ran.  She tumbled through a doorway, coughing and trying to catch her breath as she leaned against the wall.

 

She opened her eyes, looking around the room at the cowering women and children.  They would all die here if they stayed. The dragon was coming.  A scream tore through the small room as a Dothraki bloodrider stepped from the smoke into the small room.  Arya realized that it was worse than she had imagined.  They would be raped and then they would die if they stayed here.  The Dothraki grabbed a woman by the hair, starting to drag her towards the door.  Arya pushed herself up off the wall, the Catspaw dagger sliding from its sheath and through the back of the man’s neck.  He released the woman as he choked on his blood, collapsing onto the floor as the life faded from him.

 

“More will come… if you don’t run, they’ll rape you and your daughters, and then you’ll die… run…” she said, looking at the faces of the terrified women.  The one with short hair and green eyes that had pulled her up from the ground earlier met Arya’s eyes.  The woman looked down at her girl, nodding as she pulled her daughter up to standing.  She took Arya’s hand, the three of them leaving the others behind as they stepped out into the street. 

 

They ran.  By the gods they ran.  They ran so far together that Arya could almost see the edge of the city.  She pulled ahead, desperate to exit the city, staggering when a Dothraki horse rushed past her.  Suddenly they were separated. She spun in the street, searching for the woman.  She ran to her, trying to pull her up to standing, but the wound on her back from a recent blade was too much. 

 

Terror filled Arya as the roar of Drogon filled her ears.  She looked up, seeing the dragon approaching.  There were soldiers nearby, and Daenerys would burn anyone who stood too close.  She tried to drag the girl away from her mother, but the girl squirmed from her grip and ran back.  Arya only barely ducked behind a wall in time as the torrent of flame scoured the street. She stayed there for some time, curled against the stone wall that had shielded her from the dragon flame just in time. Her head still spun when she moved.  She’d just sit there for a moment.

 

_No. focus._

 

Ash filtered down around her like snowflakes.  The city around her was silent now.  There had been screams and horses and men fighting just moments ago.  Now they were ash.  Ash was silent.  She pushed herself up to standing, stepping away from her sheltered corner and back onto the decimated street.  She looked around slowly.  At the ash falling from the sky, at the fires burning in the homes.  At the bodies of the woman and her daughter, curled together in their final moments, their bodies reduced to charred shadows. 

 

Arya could feel the tears begin to roll down her face as she stared at their bodies.  She’d begged them to run.  Maybe they would have been safer in that room.  Maybe it would have been better to die there at the end of a blade than burnt by the dragon.  Movement from the corner of her eye brought everything back into focus, dragging her attention away from the death before her.

 

A white horse stood among the ash and rubble.  Its sides were splattered with blood.  Its eyes were wide with fear and it pawed the ground restlessly.  She crossed the rode towards the beast, gripping the reins carefully, stroking down the horse’s neck gently.  The spooked creature began to calm as she stroked its neck and whispered to it quietly.  It didn’t buck or protest when she curled her hands into the base of its mane and pulled herself onto its back.  They had a shared goal.  She gripped the reins tightly as they galloped through the destruction. 

 

Each jolt of the horse below her made her vision swim, but she could almost taste victory.  The rubble of the main gate was in her sights, the blue sky beyond the smoke visible in the distance.  She leaned down, spurning the horse onward with her heels, clinging to the beast for dear life.  The sunlight was almost blinding when she finally burst from the smoke into the clear air of the battlefield.  The frightened beast came to a stop, pawing at the dirt nervously. 

 

Arya looked back at the burning city behind her, relief flooding her.  She’d made it out alive, against all odds.  She leaned against the horse’s neck, exhaustion taking her body, darkness starting to creep into the edges of her vision.  She almost closed her eyes when she could have sworn she heard her name being called.  She turned her head, squinting at the blurry form that ran towards her.  She blinked, the image of her blacksmith finally coming into focus as he ran across the battlefield towards her. 

 

A smile crossed her face. _he was alive._   She could feel his name on the tip of her tongue, wanting to call out for him.  She swayed suddenly, the wound in her head throbbing sharply.  The smile fell from her lips as darkness consumed her vision and she slumped to the side, tumbling from the horse’s back into the dirt. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I've been reading lots of the comments received and I may have phrased some things in a confusing way so lets settle up.
> 
> 1\. Cersei started the burning of kings landing with the wildfire  
> 2\. Dany finished the burning of kings landing with drogon  
> 3\. The city still burns to rubble, Dany is only about 70% responsible for destroying an enemy city instead of 100% responsible for destroying a surrendered one.
> 
> make sense?


	34. Hold On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> He waits for her to wake
> 
>  
> 
> Written listening to "You Are the Reason" by Calum Scott

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

He watched from his place in the dirt as the city crumbled to ash.  The front half of the city had long since left the Dragon Queens attention, and now the flames were simply from whatever was left.  He’d watched as the torrents of flame had poured down the city streets.  They’d burned the enemy forces, for sure.  They’d also burned the men and woman and children who’d been running for their lives along with those soldiers.  The best of intentions, the most horrific of outcomes.  She’d rent the enemy army to the dust, and in doing so had sent thousands of her new subjects to their deaths in the same moment.  It certainly didn’t feel like a victory today.

 

Nymeria sat herself down beside the blacksmith, pressing her shoulder against his as she let out a whine.  He watched those golden eyes searching the faces of the dead, scanning the flames.  The direwolf was looking for the same person he was.  He leaned into the great direwolf, pressing his face to her scruff the way he’d seen Arya do so many times, wrapping his arm around the wolfs shoulders.  The she-wolf gave another whine, giving him a lick across the cheek gently.  Where was their girl?

 

Just a month ago, he’d never have dared touch Nymeria this way, but he’d come to an understanding with the she-wolf.  They both loved Arya, and somehow, he’d been able to make the direwolf understand that all he wanted was happiness for their girl.  He had a sneaking suspicion that the direwolves understood a lot more of the words they said than they let on.  There had been a couple of moments at Winterfell and on the road south where he’d taken a moment to scratch between her ears and tell the direwolf how much he loved her girl.  He had no one else to tell. The men would laugh, the Hound would have hit him, and Arya would have rolled her eyes at his sappy words.  Nymeria had always been a good listener.

 

He leaned into her now, drawing strength from the warmth of her fur and the lick of her tongue on his cheek.  She smelled like wolf and forest and woodsmoke.  Nothing like the stench of burning bodies that had filled his nose when he’d been inside the city.  Nymeria leaned into her boy as he hugged her.  Usually she only would have let her girl hug her, but her boy smelled of salt and pain.  She didn’t like it when her humans smelled this way.  She licked the salt off his cheeks, whining as she rubbed her nose into his dark hair.  She’d protected her boy because her girl had told her to.  But she wanted her girl to come back now.

 

A scent caught her nose, something other than fear and blood and smoke and death.  She pulled away from her boy, snuffling as she drew in the scents around her.  Gendry rubbed at his eyes, wiping away the tears as he looked at Nymeria’s suddenly alert stance.  She sniffed at the air, searching for something. _Someone._ He scrambled to his feet, picking up his hammer as he stared at the wolf.  As though from nowhere, a white horse came bolting from the wreckage of the city, a small figure clinging to its back, holding on for dear life. 

 

Gendry felt his feet start pulling him towards the horse, Nymeria a few paces in front of him.  He didn’t even realize that he was shouting her name as he scrambled over the rubble.  When she turned to face him, relief flooded him. _she was alive._   That relief turned to horror when he realized the streaks on her face were of her own blood.  He urged his aching legs forward, rushing towards her even though he was too slow.  Panic filled him as he watched her eyes roll back in her head and she slid from the horse’s back into the dirt, collapsing like a ragdoll. 

 

He dropped to his knees beside her, lifting her into his arms gingerly.  Her head lolled to the side limply, and he shifted his arms to support her, cradling her against his chest.  She was covered in dust and ash and blood.  Her hair was matted with it, and he could see the wound on the side of her head.  Even now, fresh drops rolled down her cheek.  He made himself be still for just a moment as he looked down at her, holding his own breath as he waited.  He watched as her chest rose and fell slowly, a sigh of relief passing through him.  She still breathed; she was still alive. 

 

He cradled her against his chest, pressing a trembling kiss to her blood streaked forehead. She’d gone through hell and come back to him, but he could feel in his chest that things still stood on the edge.  This war could still take her from him if he couldn’t get her help.  He flinched when a hand grasped his shoulder, turning to look up at Jon’s soot streaked face.  He could see the pain in the other man’s face as he looked at the battered body of his little sister.

 

“She needs a healer…” Gendry choked out, keeping her held close against his chest as he stood.  He’d never realized how small she was until he held her in his arms.  Her weight was easy to bear, and his arms wrapped around her completely.  She’d never seemed so small to him before, but he’d never seen her laid so low until now.  Even after the battle for the dawn she’d still been standing. 

 

“Take her back to camp, Wulkin will be there,” There were no healers to be found in the city. Not anymore. Their camp was at least an hour’s hard ride away, but that would be the fastest way to get her to a healer now.  The two men marched to the edge of the battlefield where they’d tied their horses.  Jon helped Gendry lift Arya into the saddle.  It wasn’t proper or elegant, but they’d used reins to lash her body to his own.  She faced him in his saddle, her head resting on his shoulder, her arms looped under his own around his waist.  He was certain she’d die of shame if she ever knew what they’d had to do to get her back to camp, but he didn’t care as long as it worked.

 

The ride was uncomfortable and bumpy and took entirely too long.  Nymeria kept pace with Gendry’s horse the whole time, startling the camp with a howl to announce their arrival.  With luck, the Maester had heard the wolf and was already stepping from his tent when Gendry arrived.  The gray-haired man frowned for a moment before he saw the blood on Lady Stark’s face and the worry on the blacksmith’s. 

 

Upon his orders, two of the men helped untie Lady Stark from the saddle, carrying her to the Maester’s tent, the portly healer following immediately after.  Gendry passed the reins of his horse off to another man, pulling off his armor and leaving it in a heap before he marched towards the healing tent.  He moved to open the flap when the Maester appeared from inside, scowling at him.

 

“I can’t allow you inside…” He said, looking the blacksmith up and down.  He’d seen the man following after Lady Stark for weeks.  The youngest Stark girl had come to him for moon tea a handful of times, but she had not seemed so concerned over the last couple weeks.  He couldn’t say he approved in the slightest.  Gendry frowned for a moment, his brows furrowing before a wry smile spread over his face. 

 

“Tell that to her…” he said, jerking his head down to indicate to the massive direwolf that stood at his side.  Wulkin gulped, Nymeria curling her upper lip to expose her ivory fangs to the Maester.  She had her girl back.  This large man would not keep her from her girl.  The Maester swallowed again, frowning at Gendry and the direwolf, but stepping aside to let them into the tent. 

 

“Very well, but you both must stay out of the way…” he demanded, though his words lacked power.  Gendry circled the small space, tucking himself into a corner as he watched the Maester’s helpers tend to Arya.  They wiped the ash and blood off her face, rinsing her hair and wiping away the dried blood.  He wanted to grab the rags and buckets from their hands and do it himself, but he was trying to stay out of the way.  Nymeria laid at his feet, the two of them watching as the Maester fussed over their girl.

 

Wulkin stitched the wound on her head.  Another scar.  Another story.  The older man tried to insist that Gendry leave when he had to check her body for other injuries, but he’d simply glared at the other man and said nothing.  Today was the day that they discovered how stubborn he really could be.  Eventually the Maester had continued with a resigned sigh.  There were some small cuts to her skin, a burn on her forearm, but the blow to her head was the worst of the damage. 

 

The Maester protested when he’d insisted on carrying her back to their tent.  There were more injured men coming who would need that cot, their bed was soft enough for her.  He laid her down on the furs gently, brushing the hair out of her face gently.  He sunk down on the ground beside the bed, taking her hand in his own as he stared at her face.  Wulkin had warned him to be prepared for the worst.  She’d lost a lot of blood, and the blow had been enough to send her unconscious.  There was a chance she might never wake, that she’d simply stop breathing and slip away.  The possibility made him feel sick to even contemplate.

 

Nymeria climbed onto the bed, laying herself down beside her girl, closing her golden eyes.  The direwolf and the blacksmith sat vigil over their girl as they waited for her to wake.  The sun set behind the mountains, the camp falling into darkness. Gendry heard the sounds of the camp coming to life.  Men rode back from the front lines for rest and aid.  They had won the war, but there were no shouts of victory.  The screams of those burning were too fresh in their ears for them to celebrate this night. 

 

Gendry leaned his head against the bed, stroking Arya’s hand with his thumb slowly as he sat in the darkness.  He didn’t even realize that he’d fallen asleep until the feeling of fingers trailing through his hair jerked him awake.  He looked up, blue eyes meeting gray in the low light of the tent.  At some point, someone had come in while he slept and lit candles.  She looked at him with half opened eyes, her hand caressing through his hair gently as a small smile settled over her face.

 

“Hey…”  He didn’t know how she could manage to smile in that moment.  Did she know how close she’d come to death?  Did she realize how long he’d waited for some sign of life from her prone form?  No, she couldn’t know.  She smiled simply because she was happy to see him again.  She’d been so convinced that she was leaving to her death, but she’d decided to live.  His voice caught in his throat as he reached up, grasping her hand and bringing it to his lips. 

 

“Arya… seven hells Arya I thought I lost you” he murmured, kissing her knuckles before he pushed himself up onto his knees, leaning over the bed towards her.  She reached up to him, pulling him closer to her with surprising strength for someone who’d taken such a blow a few hours before.

 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily” she teased, leaning up to kiss him gently, curling her fingers into his hair as she drew him in closer.  He kissed her back tenderly, pulling away from her kiss to bow his head over her hand once more, squeezing her fingers.  His own hand was trembling now. 

 

“The Maester wasn’t sure you were going to wake… the blow was bad, and you lost a lot of blood…” He said quietly, his lip trembling as tears began to roll down his face to drop onto her hand.  He heard her suck in a sharp breath when the tears touched her skin, but he just closed his eyes and shook his head.

 

“Gendry.”

 

“I know, I know… stupid for crying… but I almost lost you Arya… I rode so hard, all the way back to camp to get the Maester… what was I supposed to think? You were covered in blood…” He shook his head, gripping her hand tightly.  She sighed softly, and he felt her free hand reach up to caress gently through his hair, her fingers caressing over his cheek, wiping away the tracks of his tears.  He leaned his head into her touch, brows drawn together in pain.  How could he make her understand how terrifying it had been to see her lying there, not knowing if he was going to see her live to wake again. 

 

“Gendry…”

 

“…and you just wouldn’t wake up.  I thought I was watching you die, which is somehow worse than if you’d just never come back at all…” he was rambling now, releasing her hand to press his hands over his eyes, scrubbing at them with his palms to try to stop the tears.  It had been torture, to think he’d got her back only to lose her again. 

 

“ _Gendry!_ ”  Her raised words were enough to snap him out of his downward spiral.  He lifted his blue eyes to meet her gray ones.  Now it was his turn to be surprised to see tear tracks on her own cheeks as she looked up at him.  She sat up slightly, tugging him by his shirt and forcing him to climb onto the bed beside her. Usually he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side as he laid on his back.  Now she laid flat and tugged him close to her, his head settling against her shoulder as she began to stroke her fingers through his short hair.  It felt strange for him to lean against her much smaller form, but he loved the feeling of her fingers through his hair and the comforting sound of her heartbeat. 

 

“You don’t need to apologize for crying… Tears just mean you’re feeling too much to possibly keep it all inside…” she whispered to him, nuzzling her nose against his forehead much the same way he often did to her when they snuggled together at night.  He felt his heart leap at those words, a small smile crossing his face as he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling himself closer to her.

 

“I wasn’t sure you were going to come back… and then you did, but I almost lost you still…” he confessed, loving the feeling of her breath on his skin as she held him close to her chest.  How could he keep those kinds of feelings inside?  To lose her and get her back, to almost lose her to death’s cold grip right at the end.  How could he not feel all that?  She kissed his forehead gently, letting out a sigh as her hand dropped away from his hair. 

 

“I wasn’t sure I was going to come back either…” her words were quiet and sad.  He sat up, opening his eyes as he looked at her.  He smiled at her sadly, reaching up to caress her cheek gently.  She rolled onto her side, scooting closer to him and wrapping her arm around his waist. She nuzzled her face into his chest, warmth building there as he draped his arm around her and hugged her to his chest. It didn’t matter now that she hadn’t been sure.  She’d come back, that was all that mattered now. 

 

“Gendry?” His eyes were closed now as he held her close, enjoying the warmth of her against his chest.  He almost hadn’t even heard her say his name.  He rubbed his hand up and down her back slowly, fingers brushing through her hair gently as he made sure he wasn’t dreaming.  He leaned his forehead down to rest against hers as he held her close in the darkness.

 

“Hmm?”  He needed to stay close to her.  He needed to remind himself over and over again that she was here, that she was alive, that she would be okay now that she’d woken.  He refused to leave her side now.  Even an extra inch of space between them would be too much.

 

“Ask me again…”

 

“What?” His eyes flew open, blue finding gray staring straight up at him.  He must have been dreaming, he couldn’t have heard her correctly.  His heart leaped into his throat at her next words, the smile that settled over her face making his stomach turn flips.

 

“The battle is over… ask me again…” She reached up, caressing her fingers along his cheek as she met his eyes in the darkness.  For more than a month he’d waited, knowing that eventually she’d give him an answer, he just didn’t expect that answer to come so soon.  Part of him was terrified.  Was she toying with him as she so often loved to do?  Was this just a game to her?  He raked his gaze over her face, meeting her eyes once more.  There was no hint of trickery in her eyes.  Those gray eyes held nothing but love.

 

“Marry me?” The words almost felt dangerous as he whispered them to her in the darkness.  She smiled broadly, sliding her hand back from his cheek to wrap around the back of his head, pulling him that half inch closer, closing the last hint of distance between them. She kissed him deeply, and he couldn’t help but close his eyes as he leaned into her lips.  Those words she whispered against his lips were perhaps the best he’d ever heard.

 

“Yes, of course…”

 

 

 


	35. a Song of Ice and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Jon
> 
> The steps to the Red Keep feel like quite a long walk.

-  Jon  -

 

 

 

He’d waited for the flames to die down before he returned to the city.  The trek through the ash towards the Red Keep was long and gruesome.  Jon passed twisted piles of bodies, the ashes of horses and men and women all muddled together now in the aftermath.  Buildings smoldered, bits of rubble falling off as the supports burned away under the stone.  When earlier it had been so loud with the exploding wildfire and the roar of the flames, now the city stood silent.  There was no sound anywhere.  Nothing moved.

 

He wasn’t sure if the citizens of the city had died, fled, or if they were simply to scared to come out of their homes yet.  Fires still smoldered and smoke filled the air, making him cough has he worked his way towards the ruins of the red stone castle.  Every step felt heavy as he trudged through the ash and death.  The shadows of Lannister soldiers were burned into the sides of the buildings, the stone scorched where their bodies had not blocked the flames.  Those buildings would forever bear the mark of what had happened on that day.  He had a feeling those buildings would be torn down, if just to avoid having to stare at the shadow of a man who burned. 

 

He paused at the foot of the Red Keep, watching as ash fell around the castle in the slowly fading daylight.  A massive three headed dragon banner hung on the ruined keep, but it looked harsh and out of place.  It did mean one thing though; it meant the city belonged to her now.  He could see the ruins of the throne room; the walls and ceiling having been torn apart by the great black dragon that now napped at the entrance to the keep.  He wove his way through the staircases and around the debris of the crumbling castle.  He pushed the main doors open carefully, peering into the ruined throne room.

 

He had expected to see her sitting on the Iron Throne.  He had expected a lot of things.  Seeing her hunched on the steps leading to the throne with her head buried in her knees was not how he had expected to find her.  He walked slowly through the throne room, skirting around the charred bodies that lay at the center of the space.  He recognized the sword and the golden hand that lay among the ash.  The Lion had died defending his Lioness.  As he drew closer, he could see Daenerys’s shoulders shaking.

 

He sunk down beside her on the steps, placing his hand on her back between her shoulders.  She flinched at his touch, a stifled sob reaching his ears.  He’d never seen her like this before.  Not after the deaths of Viserion and Rhaegal. Not after Missandei.  She never cried, not like this. 

 

“I burned them…” He almost missed her words; they were so quiet.  He glanced over to the charred corpses huddled in the center of the throne room.  She was crying over Lannisters?  He let out a sigh, leaning in closer to her, rubbing slow circles on her back. 

 

“Dany…” he scooted closer to her, turning her gently by the shoulder so she was facing him.  She looked up at him with tortured violet eyes, tear tracks etched into the thin layer of soot on her face.  He watched as her gaze flicked over the bodies of the Lannisters and out through the destroyed walls of the throne room at the wreckage of the city.  Her lip trembled and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, her brows pulled together in pain as she stared out at the smoke.

 

“They are my people now… _and I burned them_ …” She whispered, biting her lip if only to keep it from trembling.  She looked back to Jon, and he was shocked by the anguish on her face as she looked up at him.  He’d found himself pulling away from her in the past weeks, turned away by her chill and bloodlust.  Suddenly he found himself wanting nothing more than to pull her close and comfort her in that moment.  That young woman who’d dreamed of a better world for them all who’d been missing for so many weeks had resurfaced.  It only took her darkest moment to bring back her humanity.  She gripped the edge of his leather armor with one hand, leaning against him. 

 

“What have I done?” Her voice was a choked sob.  Jon felt his own chest tighten at her pain.  He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, hugging her to his chest, stroking her hair gently. By the gods, having her in his arms felt so right, even knowing his parentage.  How he wished he was still just a bastard, then things would have been easier.  He pressed a soft kiss to Daenerys’s forehead, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. 

 

“Shhhh love… you did what you had to…” He murmured to her, a frown settling over his face as he held her among the falling ash.  She sniffled into his tunic, pulling away after a long moment.  Her face was pained again.  She shied out of his grasp, standing and taking a few shaking steps across the stone, wrapping her arms around herself as she looked out at the destroyed city. 

 

“Did I?  the Dothraki and Unsullied would have had no trouble finishing off the Lannister army, even with the wildfire.”  Jon didn’t have those answers.  Surly, the battle had gone faster with Drogon burning the Lannister forces, but she was right.  They’d had plenty of men and plenty of time to fight them, even with the wildfire. 

 

“I burned them because I could… _because I wanted to_ …” She shook her head as she looked over the dwindling fires.  She’d proved Varys right in the end.  She’d given in to that deepest, darkest part of her heart and let the rage take her over.  Jon stood from his place on the steps, crossing the throne room to stand behind her.  He almost reached for her, but the way she wrapped her arms around her chest defensively made him feel she didn’t want to be touched anymore.  What could he say to her?  He never had the right words. 

 

“…it was war…” He bit out, shaking his head and looking down.  Even those words felt like a lie on his tongue.  She turned to look at him, disgust in her eyes. Not at him, at herself.  Here he was, making excuses for her slaughter.  How could she have doubted how much he loved her, to defend what she’d done even now. 

 

“Excuses…” She snapped, shaking her head as she looked at him.  He let out a sigh, his head dropping as he stood among the ashes. 

 

“I let the fire overtake me… I’m dangerous if I burn unchecked.  You, Jon Snow… You cool those flames… you speak always as the voice of right and reason.” She said quietly, reaching out to place her hands on his forearms.  He reached up to grasp her arms in return, bowing his forehead to rest against hers as they stood among the silence and destruction. Her next words made his heart race and ache at the same time. 

 

“I cannot rule alone; I know this now.  I need your ice to balance my fire.  Rule at my side, as my equal, my check and balance… save me from the worst of me.” She begged, looking up at him with tear filled eyes.  He looked down at her, pain flickering across his face as he stood with her.  Did she realize what she was asking of him?  To spend the rest of his days loving her, with her at his side, and yet miles apart by virtue of their shared blood.  He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to get over that fact.   

 

“Dany…”

 

“Please Jon… for the good of the realm… for me…” She begged, reaching up with one hand to cup his cheek gently.  He pulled back from her touch slightly, heart aching when he saw how much his withdrawal hurt her.  He could see the pain on her face, and it hurt him too. 

 

“To be your equal, I’d be King.  We’d have to be married.” He said, shaking his head.  She sighed quietly, her hand falling away from his cheek to rest on his shoulder.  Sometimes she hated Samwell Tarly and Bran Stark for telling Jon the truth of his parentage. She’d finally found a taste of happiness, only to have it turn to ash in her mouth. 

 

“My father, your brother…”  He couldn’t, could he? He’d heard all her reasons before.  Targaryens wed brother and sister for centuries, this wouldn’t even be the worst of the matches in their family.  Starks had wed cousins in centuries past.  Every house had some history of family marrying family to keep power to themselves.  Could he bring himself to overlook their blood to stand beside the woman he loved?

 

“I will be wife in title only if you wish it, though I’ll always be yours… if you want me” She offered quietly, looking down at her feet.  Jon felt his heart wrench at her words.  Ever since he’d found out the truth, he’d not visited her chambers again.  He’d pulled away from her kisses and pushed away her hands when they reached for his.  Suddenly he felt cruel, to have caused the woman he loved so much pain.  How could he explain that he did want her, but his mind held him back?

 

“And if I never do?” He hated saying those words, but he couldn’t promise that his feelings would ever change.  She frowned, looking down at her feet before a mirthless smile crossed her face and she lifted her violet eyes to meet his.

 

“Then now my watch begins…” He’d said those very same words years ago when he’d pledged his life to the Nights Watch, to a life of celibacy and loneliness.  He didn’t want to force her to spend her days feeling lonely at his side.  He closed his eyes, sighing as he reached up to cup her face in his hands.  She leaned into him, her hands wrapping around his wrists as she held onto him as though she was afraid, he would disappear. 

 

“So, does this mean you’ll actually listen to me now?” He asked quietly, opening his eyes to look down at her, brown meeting violet.  Her face softened and she managed a small smile up at him, her brows pulling up and together as she looked at him.  She’d never been one for sharing power.  It was a skill she was going to have to learn. He caressed his thumbs across her cheeks, wiping away the tears that still lingered there.  He hated seeing her cry. It broke his heart to see the woman he loved cry.  

 

“I’ll have to start trying, at least” She offered, looking up at him with pleading eyes.  He sighed, reaching up to stroke the loose strands of her silver hair back out of her face.  She leaned into his touch, releasing her grip on his wrists as she leaned into his chest.  He wrapped his arms around her, pressing his face into her carefully braided hair. 

 

“And you’re not allowed to try to boss me around with Drogon” the quietest of chuckles fell from her lips at his words, and she pressed her face closer into the collar of his tunic.  She’d missed the feeling of his arms wrapped around her. 

 

“Deal…” She whispered the word into his chest, his hug tightening ever so slightly as they stood among the ashes of the throne room. 

 

“…alright, _my Queen_ ” He murmured into her hair, keeping her pressed close.  It wasn’t going to be easy.  The world was burnt around them.  She’d destroyed the city and killed countless.  The kingdoms were going to have difficulty opening their arms and hearts to Daenerys Targaryen.  Maybe with Jon at her side, they’d have a chance. The Lords of Westeros knew his level head and good heart.  He tempered the storm that raged within her, and she lit the fire that kept him pushing forward.  First, they had to fix the city, then they had to fix the continent.    

 

“ _My King_ …” She’d never even considered them, but the words felt right as she said them.  She pulled away from his chest, looking up at him as she brushed her fingers over his cheek gently.  No, this wouldn’t be easy for either of them, but at least he seemed willing to try.  She needed him, more than she’d needed anyone.  Jon sighed, a tired smile crossing his face as he looked down at her. 

 

He took her face in his hands, closing the distance between them as he kissed her.  That doubt nagged in the back of his mind, but the rush of warmth that spread through him at the feeling of her lips was enough to silence it for now.  It was a start. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn y'all, writing as Jon was difficult, but not as difficult as finding a way to keep Dany alive...


	36. Your Majesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> Jon checks in on Arya the day after the battle.

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Arya always hated being fussed over.  She hated it when her mother had fussed over her hair, she hated it when the Maester fussed over the stitches on her head.  She didn’t mind so much when Gendry fussed over her.  The scar above her eyebrow had just started to heal and fade, and now she had a new one running back into her hairline.  Someday she’d stop getting so many scars, but those days were long in the future.  He’d pressed a kiss to the line of stitches and told her she was beautiful.  She’d cuffed him upside the head before she’d pulled him down for a kiss.  

 

Not even Gendry could keep her confined to a bed, but she’d taken things slow at his insistence.  The day after the battle she made her way through the camp.  It had changed quite drastically overnight.  The men had returned, but with them had come droves of displaced civilians.  Their homes had burned, they’d had nowhere else to go.  They huddled around fires, many of the common women helping to patch up wounded soldiers, trying to provide aid to the burned and wounded.

 

She heard the stories that were muttered around fires as she walked through the camp with Nymeria at her side.  Gendry had insisted that the direwolf stay at her side, just in case she needed something to lean on if her head troubled her.  She heard what the common people said.  That Daenerys’s armies had stopped and waited for the city to surrender, but the surrender never came.  The Mad Queen Cersei had set off wildfire through the city.  The new Dragon Queen had destroyed the soldiers and taken the crown from the Mad Queen. 

 

They whispered about her beauty, about her dragon, about her strange soldiers. Most of all, they whispered about the King who stood at her side and grasped her hand as they’d proclaimed themselves rulers of the Seven Kingdoms together.  Arya had felt only relief when she’d heard the whole tale of the battle.  From her place on the ground, running for her life, she had only known that Drogon had burned the city, not why.  She’d assumed that the darkness she’d seen in the Dragon Queen had won out.  She was glad that she was wrong. 

 

She made her way back to the tent she’d been sharing with Gendry for the past few nights.  She pushed open the flap, stepping into the silent space.  She was glad to have a few moments of solitude.  Ever since the night before, Gendry had hardly left her side.  She knew he was terrified of losing her again, but at had started to wear on her. Especially since he’d been making lovestruck eyes at her every moment since she’d agreed to marry him the night before.  She caught him staring at her even when he thought she wasn’t looking.  He also kept insisting that she was beautiful, which earned him a halfhearted reprimand each time.  Truthfully, she loved that he called her beautiful.  No one else ever had.  No one else saw her the way he did. 

 

She sunk down on the bed, letting out a sigh as she reached up to touch the stitches on her forehead gingerly.  She’d made sure to keep any traces of pain from her face as she’d walked through the camp, but her head ached like it never had before.  She could feel her heartbeat in her head around the wound, throbbing with each movement.  She pulled off her boots and socks, setting them to the side before she laid back on the bed, closing her eyes.  The darkness of the tent and the quiet helped the pounding in her head.  Nymeria jumped up onto the bed, nudging her nose under her girl’s hand, letting out a whine as she laid down on the furs.  Arya smiled slightly to herself, starting to scratch gently along the direwolf’s nose, inching back to her ears slowly. 

 

She heard footsteps approaching the tent, opening her eyes as she sat herself up ever so slightly as the tent flap opened.  The silhouette of her brother was illuminated from inside the darkness of the tent.  She sighed, laying back down on the bed, regarding the new King with prying gray eyes.  He let the tent flap close behind him, their eyes adjusting to the darkness of the tent.  She could see the relief on his face as he looked at her.  She hadn’t seen him after the battle, but he didn’t seem surprised at her injuries, so perhaps he’d seen her before Gendry had brought her back to camp. 

 

“Arya…” She could hear the joy in his voice as he stepped towards her, sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed.  He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it as he looked over her.  Aside from the blow to her head, she appeared mostly fine.  Now that she wasn’t covered in blood and ash it was much easier to pick out the worst of her injuries. 

 

“Forgive me if I don’t rise, _Your Majesty_ , I took quite a blow to the head yesterday.” She taunted, squeezing his hand back as she looked up at him.  He groaned and shook his head, sighing as he ran his free hand over his face.  For a recently engaged freshly crowned King, he certainly looked conflicted. 

 

“You heard about that then?” He grumbled, looking back down at his little sister.  He’d been having to learn to deal with being called ‘Your Grace’ and ‘Your Majesty’ all over again.  His term as King in the North had been fleeting.  This time, the crown was permanent.  He’d seen the stares of awe and reverence from the small folk throughout the camp as he’d checked in on wounded soldiers and cooking lines as he moved towards Arya’s tent.  What King would walk among the soldiers in his army save a good one? Less than a day and the whispers of ‘Good King Jon’ had started to build with the commoners. 

 

“It’s all the commonfolk talk of around their fires.  The new King and Queen who defeated the Lannisters.  She was right, the common people had no love for Cersei.” Even as their homes stood in rubble, the idea was spreading like a weed, crawling through the camp.  Daenerys and Jon Targaryen had come to save them from the tyrant who burned their city and let them starve.  Jon sighed, looking away at the thought of the Mad Queen.

 

“She was a cruel woman.  She didn’t care for them like she should have…” She’d used them as a living shield, thinking that there would be enough mercy left in Daenerys to keep her from burning the city.  There had been just enough, but it had been close. 

 

“Will Daenerys?” Jon knew Daenerys cared for the common people, but quite often she had her mind on larger things.  He fixed his sister with a firm gaze, gripping her hand tightly. 

 

“ _I will_ … We will rule together.”  He declared, watching as Arya raised a brow in half disbelief.  It had taken a snarling direwolf at Winterfell to get Daenerys to back down from a verbal fight with Sansa.  That woman never ceded power unless she had to.  She narrowed her eyes, looking suspiciously at Jon.  What had happened to the Dragon Queen to bring about this sudden change?

 

“She never seemed like the kind of woman who wanted to share power with a husband, what changed?” She pressed, sitting up somewhat.  Jon frowned, pushing her shoulder back down to the furs with his free hand, gently but firmly.  He’d been informed that she’d spent the day walking around the camp, but with a blow like that he knew she needed rest. 

 

“She saw what she’d done to the city, and she realized she needed someone to help check her impulses.” He said, his gaze going suddenly distant as he recalled her tortured sobs at the carnage that had been dispensed under her order.  It had brought her crashing back to reality, and she was depending on him to keep her grounded going forward.  He was snapped out of his memory by an amused snort from Arya. 

 

“I don’t really think she plans to ‘check her impulses’ with you” She teased, shooting Jon a knowing look as she raised a dark brow at him.  She knew just as well as anyone what happened between a man and a woman behind closed doors.  If he was King, he and Daenerys would have to wed, though she’d heard whispers that they’d spent several nights together before arriving at Winterfell before the battle of the Dawn.

 

“Arya!  You know that’s not what I meant” He groaned, pulling his hand away from hers to bury his face in his palms.  She never got tired of tormenting him it seemed. 

 

“I know, but I love to make you blush brother…” she said, a smile settling over her face.  She moved to sit up, and for a moment he tried to stop her, but she shook her head.  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, sitting beside him, leaning her shoulder against his.  The playful smile fell from her face and a serious look crossed her as her gray eyes met Jon's.

 

“You’ll be a good King… Men have been trying to put a crown on your head for years, I guess this one will be permanent…” She said, smiling at her brother as they sat in the darkness.  He’d been named King in the North even against his wishes, now he would be King of the Seven Kingdoms.  He sighed and bowed his head slightly.  He’d never wanted the responsibility of ruling, yet it was constantly thrust upon him. Maybe it was time to stop fighting his destiny and embrace that the world wanted Jon Snow to lead them.  A wry smile crossed his face as he looked over at Arya, raising a brow at her. 

 

“That makes you a princess now.” He teased, bumping his shoulder against hers lightly.  Arya scowled at Jon, rolling her eyes.  

 

“Ugh, don’t remind me.  I’m sure Gendry will never let me live it down.” He’d already been hung up on the class difference between them when she’d been a Lady and he was nothing but a smith.  Now with Jon as King, she was a princess, and she had a feeling Gendry was going to tease her with that fact for the rest of their lives. She’d hit him if he started calling her _princess_ all the time. _Milady_ was bad enough.

 

“Where will you go now?” The question tugged at her heart, and it took a moment for her to answer.  Where didn’t really seem to matter as much anymore.  Some moons ago, she’d toyed with the idea of getting on a ship and sailing west after the fight against Cersei was finished.  She’d heard stories that the world simply ended, but there must have been more beyond the sea that others simply hadn’t written back about.  The open ocean and whispers of adventure didn’t call to her the way they had before.  She’d been running for so many years, she figured that she’d keep running until she reached the edge of the maps.  She didn’t feel like she needed to run anymore.

 

“Winterfell… Not until after your impending wedding and coronation though.  I’m not missing the chance to see you stuffed into royal silks.”  Jon snorted with laugher, smiling over at Arya.  The idea seemed just as silly to him as it did to her.  He was sure there were going to be dozens of sudden advisors trying to tell him how to be a King.  They were certainly going to have a hard time telling Daenerys how to be a Queen. 

 

“As your King, I could always order you to wear a dress to my wedding you know” He teased, giving an exaggerated wince as she punched him in the shoulder. 

 

“Do you _want_ me to skip your wedding?” she fussed, giving him a pointed look. It was all in jest though. She’d never dream of being away from him at a moment like that.  However long it took, she’d stay with Jon at least until the wedding and the official coronation.  She suspected that repairs would start on the red keep as soon as the stonemasons could be found.  If they worked in shifts and through the night the way the men in the north had when repairing Winterfell, the Red Keep might start to look like itself again within a month or so.  His next question snapped her out of her thoughts of masons and castles, turning her focus back to her older brother.

 

“So why Winterfell?  I know you’d grown closer to Sansa but…” He clearly had the same thought’s she’d used to.  She’d spent so much time across the sea traveling, and there was so much more in the world to explore.  He thought that she’d set off on some grand adventure, and perhaps she would someday, but there was something she needed to do at home first. 

 

“I need to visit the Godswood there” She never lied to her big brother, she loved him too much for that.  There never needed to be lies between them.  However, it was always fun to see how close to the truth she could get without giving away very much information.  She loved to see that befuddled scowl on his face light up into a smile when he finally grasped the meaning of her words.  Of course, that look was usually followed by an annoyed scowl, but it was all part of the enjoyment for her.  What was life if she couldn’t torment her older brother?

 

“If you want to pray, there’s a Weirwood tree outside the red keep...”  He said, rubbing the back of his head as he looked at her with confusion on his face.  Arya had never been one for prayers.  She’d told him how she’d served the Many-Faced God, but that god didn’t demand any prayers, only names.  She’d finished her list, there were no more names to give.  She sighed, shaking her head as a soft smile curled across her face.  She looked away, feeling the warmth blooming in her cheeks as she gave him the truth. 

 

“There are different words I need to say before the old gods, Jon… I think father’s ghost would haunt me forever if I married anywhere but Winterfell.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, raising one dark brow as she looked at him.  There it was, that befuddled look she loved so much, as though the words didn’t make sense to him. His mouth opened and closed a few times.  Arya loved it when she rendered him speechless.  Total victory.

 

“Married?”  It seemed that was the only word Jon was able to choke out.  Arya nodded, reaching into her shirt to pull out the bull’s head pendant that she always wore now.  Much to her surprise, Jon smiled, then laughed, shaking his head as he reached out to touch the pendant gingerly, turning it over in his fingers to read the inscription on the back. _I am yours_.

 

“So, he finally asked” It was Arya’s turn to be surprised, raising her brows as she tucked the pendant back underneath her shirt, enjoying the familiar feeling of the steel against her skin.  Clearly, they’d talked.  Perhaps that was when Jon had started calling Gendry ‘brother’.  She’d need to remember to tease Gendry about that later as well.  She was starting a new list; thing to tease her blacksmith about. 

 

“He asked me back at Winterfell before we left… I only said yes last night” She said, shrugging slightly as she looked back at Jon.  Now his mouth dropped open and he just gaped at her.  When he finally picked his jaw up off the ground, he just shook his head for a moment before he looked back at her. 

 

“Seven Hells! You made him wait a whole month for an answer, are you mad?” When he finally found his voice, he was almost shouting as he looked at his little sister.  What kind of man could live for a month and ride towards a war, still waiting for a yes from his woman?  Arya shrugged again, a mischievous smile curling across her face.

 

“Perhaps…” She just smirked, turning her head away from him but still looking at him out of the corner of her eye.  Jon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and putting his face in his hands as he shook his head.  He was almost worried for his friend.  That man would be on her heels for the rest of his life.  Though with the way the blacksmith looked at her, Jon had a feeling that nothing would make his friend happier. 

 

“Somehow you found the most patient man alive who’s also willing to put up with your wildness.  A whole month…”  Arya looked back at Jon, her gaze softening as she leaned her shoulder back against his.  Gendry had told her how well he and Jon had got on before they’d returned to Winterfell.  He’d always listened with rapt attention at stories of their fathers, and they’d battled well together.  They both knew what kind of man Gendry was.  Jon almost didn’t mind that his closest friend was marrying his little sister.  Almost.

 

“I wouldn’t say he’s patient… just stubborn…” She said, letting out a soft sigh as Jon lifted his head.  She raised a brow at the wry smile that was pulled over his face as he looked at her, a chuckle coming from the new King. 

 

“Those two go hand in hand, little sister…” He said, leaning his shoulder against hers, reaching out to take her hand in his again.  Her hands seemed so small, but they were calloused and worn, flecked with small scars and marks.  They were the hands of a fighter, of a rider, of a huntress.  They didn’t seem like the hands of a princess. 

 

“They’ll sing songs about you two… The wild princess who killed the Night King and ran off with a blacksmith…”  Arya sighed softly, looking down at their twined fingers.  He was right, she knew it.  Already in the North they were singing songs about her ending the long night and slaying the Night King.  Now they’d just have more romantic verses to tack on at the end when they sang on cold nights, gathered around the hearth. 

 

“Not as many as they’ll sing about you and Daenerys” Those songs might be more complicated ballads.  Daenerys had still brought destruction on the city.  Some songs would name her a liberator, some would name her a conqueror.  Time would tell which songs would ring with truth and which would fade away as malicious lies.  Arya hoped it was the former, that the songs would be happy and good.  She hoped that Jon could make his Queen do good as he so often did. 

 

“If we do good, you mean…” Arya could see the flicker of worry that crossed Jon’s face at his words.  Daenerys had seen the horror of what she’d done and was seeking change and redemption.  Jon only hoped he would be able to guide her there.  Arya squeezed his hand, his dark brown eyes turning to meet her gray ones as they sat in the darkness on the edge of her bed. 

 

“I know you will… make sure she does too.” She said softly.  Jon smiled at his little sister, squeezing her hand in return.  They might not really be brother and sister, not by blood.  They were cousins now, if visions and Maester’s journals were to be believed.  Neither of them cared.  He would always be her big brother, and she would always be his little sister.  Blood nor time nor years spent apart would change that. 

 

“I always will.” It was a promise she knew he’d keep. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So its probably gonna be pretty fluffy from here on out with some drama thrown in, but we're done with massive battles and war. Gotta say, they were some difficult chapters to write. Lots of pain, lots of sad music. I'm looking forward to working us towards a little happiness for our characters now. They've fought, they won, and they deserve it.


	37. From the Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Daenerys
> 
> After the city burns and she realizes what she's done, we start to see a softer side of the Dragon Queen as she tries to do good.

-  Daenerys  -

 

 

 

The first night, while the city still burned, Daenerys had walked what remained of the castle in solemn silence.  She peeked into the rooms that lined the halls, imagining the lives of those that had lived there.  There had been no time to pack when the alarm had been sounded in the city.  Beds were half made, clothes draped over chairs, meals left part way through.  She wandered through the corridors in the darkness aimlessly, pushing open a door that led into a seaward facing room.

 

Unlike many of the rooms, this one didn’t seem particularly lived in.  The bed was made, the furniture was neat, there were no clothes or personal items scattered around.  She ran her hand over the blankets, brushing off a thin layer of dust.  No one had lived in this room for some time.  She lit a candle, opening the shutters to the windows, closing her eyes as the cool air off the sea washed over her face.  Somehow it wasn’t quite as cold as the rooms on Dragonstone. 

 

It took her some time to undo the complicated network of braids that ran through her hair.  The wavy tendrils fell around her face as she started unbuttoning her dress in the low light.  She shrugged off the thick outer layer, laying it over a chair.  She pulled off her shoes, leaving them next to the chair before she crossed the stone floor towards the bed.  She paused for just a moment as she caught her reflection in a mirror. 

 

Her eyes were red and puffy, cheeks tinged with soot.  Her hair fell wild around her shoulders, and as she studied her reflection, she found herself looking at the girl she’d left behind in Ilyrio’s palace so many years ago.  It had been years since she’d felt so small, so powerless.  Even after burning a city to the ground, she felt powerless now.  Powerless against the cruelty that had risen inside her.  There was a little voice that whispered terrible things inside her head.  Sometimes, it sounded like Viserys.

 

_They’re nothing_

 

_They deserved it_

 

**_Burn them_ **

 

She hated that voice.  It had followed her for years, whispering the worst ideas in the back of her mind.  It pressed forward with her darkest impulses, her most cruel desires.  It questioned why she should care about anyone at all other than herself.  It was sneaky and insidious, and so often its words were so much clearer than the voice that urged her to do good.  Lately, all those good words had started to sound like Jon.

 

_They’re just people_

 

_They need your help_

 

**_Save them_ **

 

Did it count as saving them if she’d burned them too?  She pulled back the blankets and climbed into the bed, curling up on her side, pulling the covers up to her chin.  She reached out to snuff out the candle with her fingers.  Fire couldn’t touch a dragon after all.  She could hear the rolling of the waves though the windows, and the smell of the salt air helped rid the stench of the burning city from her memory. She buried her face in the pillow and closed her eyes, though it didn’t stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. 

 

When she woke the next morning, it seemed that servants had found her in the night.  There was a basin of water and fresh washcloths on the desk, and a few of her dresses had been laid across the chair for her to choose from.  She climbed out of bed, cracking the bedroom door to look out into the hall. Two Unsullied stood outside her door, one of them nodding to her when he noticed her peeking through the crack in the door.  At least she didn’t need to worry about anyone sneaking up on her.  It seemed as though she couldn’t get any privacy even if she didn’t tell people where she was going.

 

She washed and dressed alone, angling the mirror so that she could re-braid her hair.  It was much slower to do it herself.  Missandei had always done such a beautiful job with her braids.  Just the thought of the Naathi woman who she’d grown so close to over the years brought fresh tears to her eyes.  Tears continued to stream down her cheeks as she finished her braids.  She didn’t have the energy for more than two today.  Instead, she let her hair fall more loosely down her back, not quite so controlled. 

 

She wiped at her face, donning an elegant gray dress from the selection that had been brought for her.  She looked at herself in the mirror, pulling on the collected mask she’d perfected over the years.  Her eyes were a little bit puffy, but she doubted anyone would dare to comment.  She finally left the room, her face a cool mask of composure, back straight as she walked through the hall.  Her boots left footprints in the fallen ash and dust as she made her way through the halls heading out of the castle and towards the city. 

 

As she began to make her way down the steps of the keep, she was surprised to see Jon climbing the stairs towards her.  He seemed equally surprised to see her leaving the castle.  He closed the distance between them, stepping up beside her as he took her hand in his and squeezed gently.

 

“My Queen.” A smile crossed her face for the first time that day when he called her that.  He’d been calling her that for weeks, but it had been a title.  The words were slightly different now; warmer. Said out of care, not out of duty.  She squeezed his hand in return, letting out a small sigh.

 

“My King…” Those words didn’t come quite as easily, but they felt _right_ as she said them.  He’d kissed her the night before in a way he hadn’t kissed her in weeks.  She’d tried so hard to pull him closer all that time, perhaps too hard.  She hadn’t given him time to come to terms with their blood.  For years she’d been told that she would marry Viserys.  She considered a nephew an upgrade, in a twisted sort of way.  The witches curse remained, even though they’d lain together before reaching Winterfell, there was no change in her body.  There would be no chance of a mad Targaryen from them.  Someday they’d have to decide who would rule in their stead. 

 

“How are you?” His words snapped things back into focus.  She’d got lost in her thoughts.  She sighed, looking out over the ruined city.  There were still a few plumes of smoke, but most of the fires had died out in the night. 

 

“Managing…”  _Barely_.  She was being reckless.  Leaving her guards behind, sleeping in a strange room without anyone checking it first.  She’d just needed to be alone for a while.  Jon broke the silence between them, studying her face.  He could never quite tell what she was thinking.  Everyone else was so good as schooling their features into indifference.  He just scowled at everything that hoped that worked. 

 

“I was coming to make sure you were alright before I go to check on the troops and the civilians” He said, squeezing her hand again lightly, looking out across the city with her.  It would never be the same, not really. So many buildings had been damaged.  They’d repair what they could, but some parts of the city would need to be completely rebuilt from where the wildfire had torn up through the streets and floors.  They had a lot of work to do. 

 

“The city is so quiet, where did they all go?” Dany realized that she’d never heard a city so quiet.  There were some small noises, but not much moved other than the patrols of Unsullied. 

 

“Most followed the soldiers out of the city and back to their camp in the forest. They set up soup lines last night, but we’ll need more supplies soon…” There were thousands of displaced people.  The ones whose homes still were standing likely remained in the city, but those without a roof needed somewhere else to stay.  They’d pitched as many tents as they could find, using whatever cloth they could to fashion shelter and beds for as many people as possible.  They had rations to feed the army for two weeks.  They had the rations to feed the city for two days. 

 

“I want to see them… I’ll ride Drogon to the camp and meet you there” Dany decided, starting to lead him down the steps of the keep, tugging him towards where Drogon lounged in the courtyard.  Jon followed her down the steps, but when she went to pull her hand away from his, his grabbed it gently and turned her back towards him slightly. She could see the hesitation on his face at his next words. 

 

“…Maybe you should come on horseback.  Drogon is… intimidating.  Let the people learn to love you _without_ being stared down by a dragon” She frowned slightly, sighing as he looked from him to the last of her children as he snoozed curled around a broken fountain.  Drogon was gentle to her, but he terrified most.  It was the dragon in Jon that allowed him to get as close as he did, but everyone needed to approach him with caution.  She sighed softly, giving her king a sad smile. 

 

“Very well…” Daenerys much preferred Drogon to a horse, but Jon was right.  The dragon had drawn screams and panic at Winterfell, and they hadn’t just had their city burned to the ground by such a creature.  

 

They rode with a light company of six Unsullied that kept pace beside their horses.  The journey was a long and quiet one, with very few words exchanged between them as they rode.  They were both lost in their thoughts.  Jon scowled at the reins as he worried about Arya. He’d sent Gendry back to the camp with her the night before, so far, no word had come back.  Few other than the commanders knew that she rode with the army, let alone participated in the battle, so who would know to tell him his sister’s fate? 

 

Dany worried, not about one person, about all of them.  What would the common people do when she stood before them?  She’d rained fire upon their city.  Would they bow to a Queen who had burned them?  Sometimes it had taken Drogon to illicit bows from some.  Was it really respect, or just fear?  She didn’t want them to be afraid of her, but she did want their respect. 

 

She was glad to be off her horse when they finally reached the camp.  She was startled at how massive it was, stretching as far as she could see in each direction, blending into the forest.  As soon as she could find a raven, she’d have Dragonstone start sending shipments to the capitol, as well as any nearby cities that could spare it.  These were her people now; it was her responsibility to take care of them. She’d burned their city, now it was her job to fix it.  Jon came to her side, brushing a stray strand of hair back from her face.  He liked her hair done so simply.  It made her look softer, less intimidating. 

 

“I’m going to try to find Arya, she was injured in the battle…” He said, worry flashing across his face.  He was so close, and the worry was eating at him now.  Daenerys’s eyes widened as she looked at him, the pain in his eyes making her own heart ache.  She’d never had that kind of love with her brother.  Good and kind and caring.  Arya was a lucky woman to have such a brother worrying over her. 

 

“I didn’t realize… go, I’ll manage…” She said, gesturing for him to leave and track down his sister.  Jon paused, smiling at her before he leaned down to kiss her gently, reaching out to caress her cheek gently.  Dany felt her stomach turn flips at the feeling of his lips on hers again.  Twice in less than a day he’d kissed her now, and each time it only made her want to kiss him more.  She let out a petulant sigh when he pulled back, smiling up at him sadly.

 

He pulled away from her, smiling at her as he started to weave his way through camp towards Arya and Gendry’s tent.  At the very least he could try to find the blacksmith there, Gendry would know where Arya was if he didn’t find her first.  Suddenly, Dany stood very much alone in the camp, flanked by her six soldiers.  She could see the looks of discomfort from some of the nearby commonfolk at the presence of her soldiers.  She turned back to her men, glancing around before speaking.

 

“ _Ao, umbagon lēda se anni.  Ao lanta, māzigon lēda nyke, yn ȳdra daor māzigon tolī va_ ” (you, stay with the horses.  you two, come with me, but don't come too near.)  She ordered, the men nodding.  She lifted her head as she started walking through the camp, her soldiers trailing a few feet behind her.  As she walked forward, heads turned towards her.  Conversations went silent, children clung to their mother’s skirts as people looked on cautiously.  People moved as she walked towards them, bowing their heads or dropping to their knees as she walked by. 

 

Dany licked her lips slightly, lifting her chin and putting a small politician’s smile over her face as she walked among the tents and firepits.  Gods she felt silly, just walking in silence, looking at people.  A screech broke the silence that Daenerys’s presence brought, followed by the frenzied voice of a woman.

 

“Asha!  Honey, wait!”  Daenerys turned, staggering slightly when something collided with her knees. She peered down past the hem of her dress to look at a little girl with auburn curls and warm brown eyes clinging to her leg.  The girl, Asha, was tiny, couldn’t be more than a year old.  She clung to Daenerys’s boot, staring up with a patchy grin of mismatched teeth.  The world felt still for a moment, as the common people nearby watched silently as they waited for the Dragon Queen to react. 

 

Dany bent down, taking the girls tiny fingers in her own and gently pulling them away from her boot.  She dropped to one knee in the dirt, helping Asha keep her balance by holding her hands.  She couldn’t help the smile that curled across her own face as the little girl stumbled forward slightly, reaching one tiny hand up towards Daenerys’s silver hair.  The girl tugged on a strand, letting out a giggle and then a squeal of joy.  Daenerys chuckled softly, uncurling those little fingers from her hair before turning Asha around gently.

 

She looked forward, meeting the eyes of a terrified looking redheaded woman who knelt just a few feet away.  She couldn’t be any older than Daenerys herself.  From the way the woman looked at the girl, there was no denying who her mother was.  Dany leaned down, pressing the lightest kiss to the little girls’ curls before leading her forward gently towards the outstretched arms of her mother.

 

“Go on back to mummy now…” she said, looking at the little girl tenderly.  When she was just a foot or so from her mother’s reach, Dany let go of Asha’s fingers, letting her take a few independent steps before she tumbled into her mother’s waiting arms.  Her heart ached as she watched the young woman press the little girl to her chest. The redhead curtsied as low as she could while hugging her daughter close.  Daenerys had almost had that kind of love.  She’d lost it though, with her own stupidity.  Things might have been so different in her life had Khal Drogo lived.  That almost seemed a lifetime away now. 

 

Daenerys rose, brushing off her skirts as she looked around at the commonfolk who had been staring at her.  She could hear the whispers starting around her. Most looked away, afraid to meet her gaze.  Some bowed low.  Some just smiled.  She cleared her throat, smiling back slightly as she continued her rounds through the camp.  It started to become easier, like the way she’d seen Jon move among the people.  Wounded soldiers smiled and tried to bow when she came to visit them as they rested.  Mothers pressed their fingers to their lips in a kiss as they hugged their children close.  Those in the food lines raised their bowls to her as she passed by. 

 

Maybe she could do this.  Maybe the best way to earn their love wasn’t through fear and fire and power.  Maybe it was kindness and compassion.  Maybe it was making sure that children were fed and clothed and had somewhere warm to sleep at night.  Maybe she could do good. 

 

She could do this.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm enjoying playing with some more characters points of view, I hope you enjoy them too!


	38. The Wolf in a Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> As the walls of the city were rebuilt, Arya started to feel a little claustrophobic

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Rebuilding Kings Landing took less time than Arya expected.  The day after the city had burned, Daenerys had sent ravens to all the nearest holds, requesting their masons ride for the capitol, calling for whatever food could be spared to feed the displaced population.  Shipments started to arrive from Dragonstone, giving them at least the ability to feed the poorest of their citizens.  Cleaning up the streets of the city had been difficult.  Scorch marks marred the ground and the walls of buildings.  Bodies lay strewn among the wreckage.  There had been so much death and damage, it was almost difficult to start.

 

It took under two days at Winterfell to gather the dead and load them onto pyres.  It took a week and a half and several days of pyres burning outside the walls of the city to dispose of the dead of Kings Landing.  There was no Sept of Baelor anymore to bury the dead, sending them back to the gods as smoke was the next best thing.  Arya found herself avoiding the pyres.  The smells brought her back to the long night at Winterfell, and she didn’t particularly enjoy those memories. 

 

The repairs to the Red Keep were perhaps the most impressive.  Masons and smiths and glassworkers from all the nearby keeps rode straight for the city at the command of their King and Queen.  Shipments of red stone arrived by the wagon load, and it barely took a month and a half for most of the castle to be restored to its former glory.  The masons worked all hours in shifts, toiling through the night, but the result was stunning. 

 

Arya had taken to training in the courtyard of the Red Keep every morning, her spinning and quick movements earning stares from the commonfolk.  Gendry had tried to sneak off to the street of steel to work the forge there, but Jon had insisted on building a forge inside the walls of the keep so his favorite blacksmith could work in peace.  Arya found herself missing the north with each passing day.  Even in the old stone castle, even on the eve of war, it hadn’t felt quite as crowded as Kings Landing. 

 

She grew tired of the city, of the noise and bustle and constant bowing.  Being sister to the King had few perks, and plenty of disadvantages.  She could walk where she pleased, no one questioned her or stopped her.  No one even complained when she walked through the halls with her hand curled around Gendry’s.  She hated being called Princess though.  Gendry had found the notion hilarious, and it was only when she’d climbed into his lap and sweetly threatened to cut out his tongue that he stopped trying to call her that.  She could handle being _Milady_ to him, but not _Princess_. 

 

Jon and Daenerys were busy trying to repair the city and organize both a wedding and a coronation.  Sansa had written her congratulations on their victory and promised to visit the capitol for their wedding.  Arya was tired of politics and politeness and people bowing.  She wanted freedom, and the city was just a very large cage.

 

She made her way to the forge in the Red Keep, leaning on the archway as she raked her gaze over her blacksmith.  It was warmer in the south, even in winter, and Gendry had rid himself of his shirt sometime during the day.  She let her eyes wander over his bare chest and shoulders appreciatively, a smile curling over her lips as she absentmindedly reached up to touch the pendant around her neck.  Ever since she accepted his proposal, she’s started wearing it over her clothes instead of tucked away against her skin.  Perhaps it wasn’t traditional, but she liked it better than a ring. 

 

She admired the way the wolf pendant glinted in the flames of the forge, the steel dark against the skin of Gendry’s chest.  Even though it was too hot for a shirt, the pendant never left his neck.  They both only removed them when they absolutely had to.  She walked over to the work area, peering around him as she watched him work.  They weren’t at war anymore, there was no need for swords or weapons.  What they needed where the supplies to rebuild the city.  She could see his work piled around him.  Hundreds and hundreds of nails and hinges and locks and other building parts had been made and knowing him he’d make a thousand more. 

 

Gendry nearly jumped out of his skin when she placed her hand on his arm, almost dropping his hammer as he whirled around to look at her.

 

“Damnit woman, can’t you make any sound when you walk?” He fussed at her, though the smile on his lips betrayed that he wasn’t _really_ mad at her. She trailed her fingers along his arm, up from his elbow to his shoulder, smirking as she watched a visible shiver run up his spine.  She stepped around to his other side, picking up one of the nails he was working on.

 

“Do you think your work could wait for a few days?” she mused, turning the item over in her fingers.  Gendry sighed, lifting his hammer, to finish straightening the nail he had been working on, tossing the finished piece into a pile with the others.

 

“Why?” She knew he loved spending his time in the forge, it had been where he’d spent almost all his hours since Jon had the workshop built for him.  Maybe her brother thought if he could make Gendry want to stay that Arya might stay as well.  Her heart called her away from the city though.  How could she stay here?  So many terrible things had happened in that castle and that city.  She would be glad to leave once Jon and Daenerys were crowned.

 

“I want to get out of this city.  I feel like the walls are closing in on me as they get rebuilt brick by brick…” She confessed to him, sighing softly as she looked around the forge.  Gendry chuckled softly, setting down his hammer and tongs, reaching out to take one of her hands in his own gently, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand.  He’d seen her growing more restless by the day.  Her training in the courtyard had grown more vicious the last several days.  She’d been starting to get short with the servants.  She was beginning to bite back, like a wolf who couldn’t take any more poking or prodding from onlookers.

 

“Can’t keep a wolf in a cage…” He murmured quietly, Arya looking up at him, a small smile curling over her face.  She’d never willingly stepped into a cage in her life, the wolf in her wouldn’t allow it.  When she was little, she’d thought that marriage would be a cage that she’d have to try to escape just like all the others.  She’d dreaded the idea of tying herself to one other person for the rest of her days.  She’d had plenty of time to think about his proposal in the weeks they’d spent riding south.  Even when she’d finally agreed, she was waiting for the cage walls to come crashing down around her.  It took her longer than it should have to realize that wolves’ mate for life.  Even if he’d never asked and she’d never agreed, she would have always been bound to him. No one could own a wild thing, Gendry knew that.  Arya had given herself to him freely.  What was freedom if it was spent alone?

 

“I want to go for a hunt in the Kingswood, just you and me and Nymeria,” She said, squeezing his hand in return, looking up at him.  A dark shadow flickered across his face and he looked away, glancing around the forge to avoid meeting her eyes.

 

“I’ve never been big on hunting…” She remembered now that King Robert had been killed on a hunt. He’d never known his father, only known about him, but she knew it must still sting.

 

“You don’t have to hunt, its just an excuse to get away for a little while” She said quietly, squeezing his hand.  She hadn’t meant to upset him.  She leaned up to him, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, letting out a small squeak as he wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her close into his chest.  She looked up to meet his eyes, a smirk curling over her face as she saw those blue eyes turn dark and wanting as he realized what a few days away in the wilderness would offer them. 

 

“How long do you think we can get?” He asked, raising a brow as he looked down at her.  He still felt awkward in the castle, partially why he spent so much time in the forge. He felt out of place when he walked through the halls in the Red Keep.  Sure, the soldiers and servants knew him now, but his plain clothes and sooty visage still set him apart.  He saw the lingering looks from the highborns who had started to trickle back into court after fleeing the city.  He knew they whispered about the bastard who was friends with the king and betrothed to the princess.  He hated those whispers.  

 

“Four, maybe five days… Any longer and Jon will probably start getting nervous.  The wedding is barely two weeks away” Arya said, rolling her eyes slightly as she looked up at her blacksmith, reaching up to drape her arms lazily around his neck, running her fingers through his hair gently.  It had grown even more, almost back to the shaggy mop he’d sported when they were younger.  She liked it long.  She was glad to get some time away from everything with him.  She saw how uncomfortable he still was at feasts and around the castle. 

 

“Is he still going to try to make you wear a dress?” Gendry teased her, chuckling when she scowled up at him.  He didn’t even expect her to wear a dress to _their_ wedding.  If Jon wanted her in anything but a tunic, he’d need to beg like he’d never begged before. 

 

“He should know better than that by now” Arya growled, shaking her head.  She refused to look awkward and ridiculous at Jon’s wedding.  She didn’t know how to move in dresses like the wore in the capitol, with corsets that squeezed a womans waist and made it impossible to breathe.  How Sansa managed it every day was beyond her knowledge.  There was no way Jon was getting her to wear a dress.  A warm kiss pressed to her furrowed brow brought her back out of her thoughts. 

 

“So, when will we leave?” He asked, nuzzling his nose against her skin gently. He liked holding her close like this, even though anyone could simply walk into the forge and see them.  No one really came to visit him here, aside from Jon, Arya, and Davos.  Only Jon would have protested to see the pair standing so close now, and the King had long since given them his blessing. Any protest would just have been the discomfort of an older brother seeing his little sister with a man. 

 

“Tomorrow morning… I know most hunts ride out at dawn, but recently I’ve found myself so much more inclined to lounge in bed” She said, letting her fingers roam over his chest gently.  She’d usually been an early riser for most of her life, and she still woke with the dawn most days.  Now she had a good reason to stay in bed though.  The lazy mornings where she curled up against his side and traced patters on his chest as he slept were some of her favorite times.  Some mornings, if she was feeling wild, she’d start to pepper him with kisses to wake him, and they’d roll in the sheets until they were out of breath and sated.  They didn’t usually get much done on those mornings. 

 

“I’m not complaining” He teased, leaning down to kiss her again.  She smiled into his lips, kissing him deeply before uncurling herself from his embrace, slipping out of his grasp.  She stepped back from him, looking him up and down appreciatively before she stepped around him, running her hand along his shoulders across the top of his back as she stepped around him.

 

“Oi, where are you going?” He said, whipping around as she made her way from the forge.  She spun on her heels, turning to smirk at him, her cape whirling around her as she moved. 

 

“I have a hunt to prepare for… see you tonight” For a second, they were back in Winterfell again, and he’d just seen her for the first time in so many years.  When she’d teased him and giggled and spun just to catch him staring after her that first night, when he’d seen her again after so long.  He didn’t mind that she loved to tease him.  She loved to tease Jon, and even had begun to tease Sansa before they’d left Winterfell.  Arya might not have realized it, but it was how she showed her love for those around her.  Everyone else saw the calm and collected warrior, bringer of the dawn.  Those she loved got to see the wild girl with the quick wit, dirty mind, and an even dirtier tongue.  They got to know the real Arya Stark.  

 

He shook his head as she flitted from the forge, picking up his tools and getting back to his work.  He smiled to himself as he looked down at the wolf pendant that rested on his chest.  He considered himself very lucky to be loved by Arya Stark.

 

 


	39. The Reluctant Stag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> something has been weighing on the mind of our blacksmith

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

True to her word, Arya had everything prepared before Gendry found his way to their chambers that evening.  He was rummaging through a drawer, trying to find one of his shirts.  He was sure he’d seen it there that morning.  When he’d finally asked her if she’d seen it, a sheepish look had crossed her face when she admitted that she’d packed it in his bag for their hunting trip.  It was one of his softer ones, and he usually liked to wear it to sleep in.  He’d only rolled his eyes, halfheartedly complained that he’d have to sleep shirtless, and tumbled into bed with his she-wolf when she’d told him she didn’t mind the lack of shirt.  When those gray eyes turned dark and wanting, he could never turn away from her.  He was already lacking a shirt, what difference did pants make too?

 

He woke when the sun streamed into their bedroom, pleased to find her legs still tangled with his, her arm draped lazily over his chest.  He turned his head to gaze at her, his eyes wandering over her face as she slept.  The wound on her head from the battle had healed well.  The new scar started a couple of inches above her eye and ran back into her hair, almost parallel to the scar from the Battle for the Dawn.  He admired the way her lips parted every so slightly as she slept.  In the sunlight, he could count the very faint freckles that dusted her cheeks and nose.  He’d never be tired of looking at her. 

 

He let out a sigh, surprise spreading over his face as she opened her eyes, meeting his gaze.  Of course, she’d been awake the whole time.  A smile curled across her lips and she leaned in to kiss him before sliding out of his arms and climbing out of the bed.  He followed her lead, both of them dressing in clothes that would be comfortable to ride in.  As the reality of where their day was going washed over him, he found the smile on his face growing against his own control. 

 

He’d always hated Kings Landing.  It had been where he called ‘home’ for most of his life, but it had never felt like it.  It had always just been a stinking city, filled with too many people, none of whom cared if he lived or died.  He wouldn’t mind seeing the back of it and never returning.  He knew they had to come back, but he was looking forward to this escape the more he thought about it. 

 

The main gates were still being repaired, but the crowds still parted for their horses.  Probably because they were being led by Nymeria, and anyone who was smart gave the direwolf a wide berth when she walked past.  The horses were packed down, so they didn’t race or kick up the pace as they rode.   It was a comfortable feeling, just the three of them together on the road.  Gendry wished it could be like this always.  This kind of life was the kind he’d imagined when he’d proposed to Arya back at Winterfell.  Her roaming the world, him at her side, going where she led him. 

 

They chatted and joked as they rode, their conversating giving way to a relaxed silence as they admired the lands around them.  Even though it was winter, the sun was warm on his shoulders, and he was glad when they finally reached the Kingswood and the shade of the trees provided them with some respite from the heat of the sun.  Arya led them through the wood, some destination in mind as she urged her horse forward, moving them along an old game trail.  They’d lapsed into another period of silence, and Gendry found his mind wandering to something that had been nagging at him for some time. 

 

\- Two weeks earlier -

 

Jon didn’t usually visit Gendry in the forge.  Gendry heard him coming, the sound of his boots on the stone easy to hear over the sound of his hammer.  Only Arya could sneak up on him now, he was always trying to listen out for her.  He still never heard her.  Davos had a different gait, so it wasn’t him.  The Unsullied marched at least in pairs, and the sound of their boots was distinct and evenly paced.  The King moved quietly, but nothing near the perfect silence of his little sister. 

 

“Jon…” He surprised the King when he turned before his friend had a chance to announce his presence.  Gendry laid his tools down on the workbench, extending his arm to Jon in a greeting, smiling broadly as the King returned the gesture.  Jon had scowled at him the first time Gendry had dared call him ‘Your Grace’ in place of his name, and expressly forbid Gendry from using titles if it was them speaking alone.  Jon was King to everyone else; he didn’t want to have to be King to his closest friend in the city. 

 

“Gendry…Been taking lessons from Arya, eh?  So, how do you like the forge?” the King looked around the area he’d had built for Gendry.  There had been an unused corner of the courtyard, and he’d had the outside of the workshop rebuilt to blend in with the rest of the castle.  You wouldn’t know it was a smithy unless you heard the pounding of a hammer on steel.  He’d tried to model it after Winterfell as best as he could, he knew that Gendry had liked the forge there.  There were several workbenches, and plenty of brand-new tools for the blacksmith to use. 

 

“It’s good, nice to have new tools and not have everything covered in fifty years of soot.” Gendry joked, smiling at his friend.  Jon smiled briefly but worry settled over his face as he leaned against one of the workbenches.  Gendry picked up a rag, wiping his hands as he leaned against the same bench, studying the King. 

 

“Something on your mind, brother?” He knew Jon well enough to know when he was scowling to be left alone, and when he was scowling because he wanted to be coerced into talking.  The ridiculous rules of society made it hard for men to voice their worries.  If he was heard worrying, whispers might start that the King was not at ease or unwell.  Jon couldn’t simply say he was worried, Gendry had to ask.

 

“Yes… I wanted to discuss this with you before anyone else” the King sighed, looking around the forge. Gendry frowned, raising a brow as he narrowed his eyes at the King.  What was it that Jon could only discuss with a blacksmith of all people?

 

“Why me?” Jon ignored the question, but he did finally look back at the smith.  He didn’t officially wear a crown yet, but the weight of it was feeling heavy on his head already. 

 

“We’re getting some pushback from the liege lords of the Stormlands.  They’re one of the closest holds, but they’ve been delayed in answering every raven, and very little aid as come from them to rebuild the capitol” Jon explained, pulling his dark eyes away from Gendry again, inspecting the pommel of his own sword.  Gendry frowned a little more, his brows furrowing as he looked at the King.  He didn’t speak, he already had a distinct feeling he knew exactly where this conversation was leading. 

 

“We need a Lord of Storms End making these decisions, not a group of lords who can’t seem to agree on anything.” The words were almost pleading, but Gendry just shook his head slowly. 

 

“Jon…” Gendry was truly surprised that Jon was asking this of him again. He’d made his position on the idea of taking the Baratheon name very clear when they were back in Winterfell.  Jon looked back at him sharply, a frown now settled over the Kings face.  He was trying to keep this country together, but no one was making it particularly easy for him.  Was it so wrong that he wanted his friend to help him fix things?

 

“You’re a Baratheon by blood, if Dany and I were to name you heir to Storms End…”

 

“You’d get a friend in the Stormlands, and I’d lose Arya forever…” Gendry’s reply was sharp, cutting off the Kings words.   He scowled at Jon.  Suddenly the other man could look anywhere but directly at Gendry.  Jon folded his arms across his chest, looking down at his feet.  Silence hung between them for a long moment before the King finally spoke.

 

“…you don’t know that…” he said quietly, looking back to Gendry.  His hope waned when he saw the displeased look on Gendry’s face.  The blacksmith’s hand had moved to wrap around the wolf pendant around his neck.  Just as Gendry had told Daenerys when she’d threatened to name him Baratheon, his place was at Arya’s side, and he’d follow wherever she went.  He loved his King as a brother, but ultimately his first concern was the happiness of his she-wolf. 

 

“I do… I’m not going to try to make her something she’s not” It was a miracle she’d agreed to marry him at all.  Now Jon wanted to make her the Lady of Storms End.  How could he ask her to step into a cage?  The King let out a sigh, a defeated look crossing his face. 

 

“…will you at least ask her?” Gendry sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.  Why was he even considering this?  His place was beside Arya, and yet there was a small voice in the back of his head that whispered about Storms End.  A name to call his own, a castle where no one could kick him out or command him, never having to serve another man again.  He’d always wanted something to call his own.  He had Arya, but could he really call her his own?  She belonged to herself, he just was lucky enough that she had decided he belonged to her. 

 

“And if she says no?” Jon shrugged, letting out a sigh.  He knew Arya’s answer would probably be no.  If he asked her, it would have been no.  Maybe Gendry could find the right thing to say to make her accept?

 

“Then I won’t even mention it to Dany…” Gendry’s brows rose in surprise. 

 

“You haven’t talk to her about it?” Doing things without the Dragon Queen’s input had not been Jon’s style as of late.  He’d been very serious about them ruling together, and all matters of state so far had been discussed and agreed upon by both of them before any action had been taken.  It certainly delayed the process on some things, but already the two Targaryens were working together more smoothly.  This was why Gendry was so surprised that Jon had kept this from his queen. 

 

“I wanted to talk to you first.  Dany… she can be impulsive, if I mentioned we needed a Lord of Storms end, she might just name you anyway.” Gendry’s chest ached at his friend’s words, letting out a sigh.  Jon was going behind the back of his Queen, risking a fight with his woman, just to make sure his friend didn’t suffer.  Jon was always sacrificing himself for others.  Someday Gendry would need to have a talk with him about it, but today he was glad for the King’s kindness.  Few got to make this kind of choice, and he was honored that Jon trusted him to make the right one. 

 

“I’ll ask her, but don’t get your hopes up”

 

\- - - - -

 

That request had been stewing in his head for days now.  There was never the right time to ask, never the right time to bring it up.  He couldn’t mention it at dinner, and he didn’t want to bring it up while they laid together in bed.  Jon had been eager for an answer, but he’d begged the King for more time.  He’d need to talk it over with her before the returned to the city.  If they didn’t, he knew it would chew up his thoughts the whole while.  It had already consumed plenty during the ride, and he was tired of it. 

 

It was passed midday when Arya finally stopped.  There was a small clearing in the forest, a good-sized stream running nearby.  There was nothing else around them for miles. They unpacked the horses, tying them on long leads to a tree so they could graze the clearing.  Gendry was surprised when Arya took up an axe, though she explained they’d need sturdy trees to pound into the ground to support their tent.  He hadn’t even thought of that.  Armies traveled with carts carrying tent poles and ropes and stakes.  They’d had no tent poles tied to their saddles, though a large canvas tent had been packed onto the back of his horse with his own clothes. 

 

They chopped down two thin trees that each had a ‘Y’ shaped split in them, as well as one long sapling for a crossbeam.  When they’d dug the posts into the ground and laid the beam across the top, the height of the tent would be plenty of room for both of them to stand inside.  Together they’d dragged the heavy canvas tent over the crossbeam, pinning the edges into the ground with stakes, tying ropes to the sides to keep them from collapsing in on them. 

 

Gendry could only follow orders as Arya worked efficiently to set up their camp as the daylight started to fade around them.  She’d sent him out into the forest to gather different thickness of sticks and twigs.  They’d need kindling to start the fire, and medium sized branches to feed the flames while they grew.  By the time he’d returned with an armful of wood, she’d dug a hole in the ground near the entrance to their tent, lined it with stones, and build a wind guard for the firepit.

 

It wasn’t quite like the many months they’d spent traveling as children.  Sure, they’d been sleeping in the forest, but not in a tent with a firepit and furs.  They’d slept on the moss, under the stars, with no shelter to speak of.  Arya had spoken to Jon, and she’d promised they’d be back within a week.  They had several days to themselves here, they could take the time to make the camp more comfortable. 

 

She’d tasked him with starting the fire while she insisted on setting up their bed.  He watched her ferry armfuls of dry leaves and ferns into the tent, followed by spruce bows still covered in their tiny needles.  Then more ferns and leaves.  Finally, she hauled in the furs that had been wrapped inside the canvas tent, putting the finishing touches to the makeshift bed they’d be sharing for the next several nights. 

 

He left the crackling fire to peek into the tent to inspect her work, an impressed look settling over his face as he eyed their bed.  She’d layered the leaves and boughs so that the spruce bows had some give, the fine needles, providing support and structure. Then she’d layered on more ferns and leaves to cushion against the branches.  After, she’d laid several furs over the cushion, topping it with two pillows and a thick blanket for them to sleep under.  He doubted it would be as comfortable as it looked, but better than sleeping on rocks and stones. 

 

They ate a simple supper that night, bread and meat and cheese from the pack of food Arya had brought along on her horse.  If they wanted fresh meat, they’d need to go out hunting, but she’d brought enough for at least four days before they’d need to start foraging and hunting to supplement their rations. 

 

As the sun began to set, the three of them assumed the pose they’d so often reclined in while traveling on the Kings Road.  Nymeria laid down, Gendry lounged against her side, and Arya reclined back against his chest.  He watched the flames dance along the logs as they relaxed in silence as darkness fell around them.  He curled his fingers through Arya’s letting out a soft sigh.  It wouldn’t be any easier, and he’d already put it off for this long.  They were finally alone, there was no time like the present. It didn’t make the words any less difficult to say.

 

“Jon wants me to be Lord of Storms End”

 

 

 


	40. No Featherbed for Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV
> 
> the more they talk, the more Arya starts to run out of excuses

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

“Jon wants me to be Lord of Storms End” Those words broke the silence that had been hanging around the camp.  Arya hadn’t been thinking of anything in particular, just enjoying the warmth of the fire and the feeling of her blacksmith’s arms wrapped around her.  She could feel herself involuntarily stiffen at his words, and a pang of fear flashed through her heart.  Even out in the forest, suddenly she could feel the walls of the cage closing in on her again.

 

“I told him I’d have to talk to you about it first” She relaxed slightly at those words, looking back over her shoulder at Gendry.  She studied his face, his emotions slipping through even as he tried to maintain a composed look.  She could see the uncertainty on his face, the hints of fear, and just the smallest whisper of longing.

 

“…Do you want to be Lord of Storms End?” For a bastard with no name, no gold, no place to call his own, a whole holdfast being dropped in his lap must have been something of a dream come true.  He’d been a second-class citizen his whole life because of his last name.  Now a name hung before him, all he had to do was reach out and take it.  Gendry sighed, shaking his head slightly, looking from her face back to the fire. 

 

“I don’t know… I don’t know how to be a Lord… Seven Hells Arya, you had to teach me how to use a damn fork!” He complained, scowling at the flames as he tightened his arms around her.  He sat up slightly, and she shifted to accommodate the change, resting her hands on his forearms as they sat before the flames.  It was everything he’d wanted as a boy, yet as a man, having it within his grasp terrified him.  He didn’t want a name at the cost of his love, and yet it had still nagged at his thoughts. 

 

“But you’ve been thinking about it…”  It wasn’t a question; she could see it on his face.  He’d probably been stewing over it for hours and hours.  When they had been kids, he’d told her about his life.  About his mother, about how she’d died when he was little.  Of how it hurt not to have a name other than Waters.  To be treated like the dirt under peoples boots for years.  If he was Gendry Waters, he was nobody.  If he was Gendry Baratheon, just his name alone would command respect. 

 

“yes…” His reply was quiet, and she could hear the guilt in his voice. Guilty over considering a life for himself that had been a dream for so many years.  Guilty over wanting to help his friend, and also wanting to be true to the wolf in her.  Arya sighed, looking back at the fire as well. 

 

“Because its Jon who asked?” He sighed, leaning forward to rest his chin on her shoulder, leaning his head against hers.  She closed her eyes for a time, leaning into the warmth of the fire, even though it did nothing to warm the chill in her heart.

 

“Yes.  He’s as close as I’ve ever had to a brother, and he’s struggling,” he said, Arya nodding slightly.  Jon had never wanted the crowns that had been placed on his head.  Of course, he’d not had a crown as King in the North, nor had he worn a crown yet as King of the Seven Kingdoms.  It was the responsibility that came with it that weighed so heavily on her brother.  The weight was heavy, because he always strove to do what was good and kind, even when that road wasn’t an easy one.  Even when it meant making tough decisions and putting aside personal feelings for the good of the country. 

 

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” she said softly, letting out another heavy sigh, opening her eyes to look back into the fire. 

 

“He hasn’t even told Daenerys yet… He wanted to give me time to ask you first” He said quietly, pressing a tentative kiss to her hair.  Arya leaned into the kiss for a moment before she pulled away.  She untangled herself from his arms, scooting out of his embrace.  It was harder to think when his arms were wrapped around her.  The warmth of his body and the brush of his fingers on her arms was too distracting.  She moved to sit beside him, leaning her shoulder against his.  She stared into the flames for a long moment, taking a deep breath before she broke the silence between them.

 

“You know I can’t be a proper lady…I won’t flounce around wearing stupid dresses…” she said, turning her head to look at him.  A smile curled over his lips, and he nodded.

 

“I know”

 

“I won’t sew or knit or stitch stags into all your clothing like my mother used to do” she declared, raising a dark brow at him as she watched him.  That smile on his face grew slightly and he raised a brow at her in return. 

 

“From what your sister told me about your needlework, I’d consider us lucky for that” he teased, pushing his shoulder against hers gently.  Arya frowned slightly, looking back to the flames, then around at the forest they were camping in.  She needed this, this freedom. 

 

“I might have to leave sometimes if the walls start pressing in…” she insisted, looking back at him.  He nodded, glancing around the clearing that she’d picked for their camp.  He liked it out here too. 

 

“Like they did at Kings Landing? You can go on as many ‘hunts’ as you’d like” He might even have to join her on some of those hunts, if the burden of being Lord of Storms End grew to feel like too much every now and then.  The stretches of silence between her statements was growing longer.  Gendry smiled just a little bit to himself as he watched her scowl into the flames.  She was trying to come up with more excuses.

 

“I’m not going to defer to you just because you’d be my Lord…” She said, looking over at him sharply.  She’d never deferred to anyone if she could help it.  She didn’t plan on starting now just because it was expected of her.  Her scowl softened when Gendry reached out, taking one of  her hands in his own, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. 

 

“I don’t know how to run a castle or a holdfast… If we do this, we do this together.  Like Jon and Dany, just you and me…” Her heart raced at those words, the faintest of smiles twitching over her lips.  She liked that idea.  She’d never been one to stand to the side while a man led.  She would stand side by side with Gendry, leading together.  Suddenly the cage walls that had been so pressing just moments before didn’t really seem like a cage anymore.  He wouldn’t keep her trapped, he wouldn’t make her be a proper lady like Sansa.  For just a moment, she could almost feel the ‘yes’ on the tip of her tongue.  Then a thought came to her mind, and the smile that had been working its way across her face faded.

 

“I still can’t have children… a Lord needs an heir”.  Her words were whispered, quiet and scared.  He’d promised her back at Winterfell that she’d been enough, but that was before their children might be important.  A Lord needed an heir to carry on the family name and preserve the work of generations past.  If she’d ever doubted before, she knew it to be true now, she was barren.  She’d lost count of how many times they’d lain together, and she hadn’t been drinking moon tea for months.  Her moons blood had still not returned.  She knew it never would. 

 

Gendry sighed softly, squeezing her hand.  They’d stopped being careful quite a long time ago, and she was definitely not with child.  The Baratheon line had always been strong, after all, his own father had sired dozens of bastards.  She’d told him that she wasn’t taking moon tea, clearly it hadn’t made any difference.  He didn’t need to have children to have an heir, he’d be Lord of Storms End, they could name whoever they pleased. 

 

“I’m sure there are plenty of orphans of war in the Stormlands now… We’ll chose an heir when we find someone worthy of it. Family is what you make it,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips for another kiss.  She looked at him, and he could see the war in her eyes.  Torn between duty and freedom.  She held his hand tightly, looking into the flames. 

 

“Would it make you happy?” She whispered the words so quietly; she wasn’t sure if he’d heard them.  The gentle squeeze of his fingers assured her that he had. 

 

“Not if it makes you sad” he confessed, leaning his shoulder against hers.  If it would make her happier to roam around the country for the rest of their days, he’d follow her to the end of the earth and back.  He let out a sigh, filling the silence that hung between them once more.

 

“I’m a blacksmith… its all I’ve ever been.  Do you think I’m going to put down my hammer and never step back to the forge just because I get some fancy title?  You’re a warrior, a fighter, a wolf.  I could never ask you to stop being what you are.  You can wear trousers and fight and ride and hunt and damn anyone who tries to stop you.” He said, gripping her hand.  She turned her head to look at him, sadness in her eyes but a small smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth.  He’d never ask her to be something she wasn’t.  Loathe though she was to admit it, even with her wild ways, she was a Lady.  Just not a very usual one. She let out a sigh, starting to speak. 

 

“Gendry…” In his hurry, he cut off her words, looking at her with the same nervous energy he had when he’d first proposed.  He was rambling again. 

 

“We’d be the Lord and Lady of Storms End… It wouldn’t even be against the rules.  We’d make the rules…” He offered, eyes flickering around the clearing as he tried to think of other things he could say, of the right words to make her understand.  All he wanted was to spend the rest of his days with her, be they in a forest on a bed of branches and leaves, or in a castle and a featherbed.  She leaned over, closing the distance between them, pressing a kiss to his lips to silence him.  He leaned into the kiss, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer as they sat by the fire.  She pulled away, reaching up to brush her knuckles along his cheek gently. 

 

“Stubborn Bull… already picking fights with his imaginary liege lords” she teased, smiling at him fondly.  He leaned his cheek into her touch, smiling at her tenderly. 

 

“Only for you” He’d shout until he was blue in the face to drown out any notion of some older Lord trying to impose rules on his she-wolf.  He’d fight for her until his dying breath if it came to it. 

 

“What if the weight becomes too much to bear for both of us?” She asked quietly, leaning her head against his shoulder, pressing herself into his side.  He pulled her a little closer, pressing a kiss to her dark hair as they gazed into the fire. 

 

“Then we’ll just name Ser Davos Lord of Storms End and run off into the forest with Nymeria… I can be your forest love, and you my forest lass…” He teased, though he wouldn’t be upset with that kind of life either.  Arya chuckled, her breath fanning across his neck as she snuggled herself closer into his side. 

 

“Tom used to sing that song…For a bard, he could never stay on key…” She recalled, reaching out to take Gendry’s free hand, curling their fingers together as they sat in the darkness by the fire.  They sat there for some time, the chirp of insects and the soft snores of the great direwolf behind them the only sounds in the night, save the crackling of the fire.  A thought struck Arya, a whine pulling from her lips as she turned her head to look up at Gendry. 

 

“Do you realize how much trouble I’m going to be in with Sansa?  First engaged to be married, then Lady of Storms End.  She’ll never let me live this down.  All those years I swore I’d never be someone’s Lady.” She said, shaking her head, a wry smile curling across her face as she started into the fire.  Gendry squeezed her hand, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her cheek. 

 

“I’d be content with a forest lass” He whispered, a chuckle falling from her lips as she turned her head to press a kiss to his lips.  She kissed him deeply, only breaking away for air, nuzzling the tip of her nose against his.  She looked at him through half closed eyes, a smirk working its way across her lips as she quirked one dark brow at him. 

 

“If you insist… _Milord_ …” she teased, grinning at him wolfishly.  Gendry’s eyes went wide, and a defeated groan fell from his lips.  He’d been tormenting her with that title for years.  He could see by the mischievous flame in her gaze, she’d taunt him with this for the rest of his days.  He didn’t particularly mind. 

 

She kissed him again, turning slightly so she could lean in closer to him.  Her hand pulled away from his to circle around his head, curling into his black hair.  She let out a soft growl against his lips, pulling him closer as she toyed with his bottom lip between her teeth. He moaned softly and she took that opportunity to deepen the kiss, demanding entrance to his mouth.  Their tongues twined and danced; and only when her lungs were bursting did she pull away.  Both of them were panting now, breathless from their kiss. 

 

She pulled herself away from his arms, despite his whine of protest.  She stood, brushing the dirt off her trousers, making her way around the sleeping direwolf to their tent, resting her hand on the support pole.  She looked back over her shoulder at him, a smile curling across her face.

 

“Are you coming, my forest love?” she called, her eyes drawing him in as he gazed at her.  A smirk crossed his face as he stood, closing the distance between them and drawing her back into his arms.  He slid his fingers under the hem of her shirt, trailing them over her sides as he started to press a trail of kisses from her lips down the curve of her neck towards her shoulder. 

 

“Of course, my forest lass” He murmured against her skin, smiling when he heard her low groan, her hands gripping his shirt and pulling him with her into the darkness of the tent. 

 

They could be Lord and Lady of Storms End when they returned to the capitol.  For now, they were content that he be her forest love and she his forest lass.  There would be no featherbed for them.  Not tonight. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger last time, I had to get some sleep in between chapters ;P


	41. Together Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> 100% fluff

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

The gentle press of a kiss to his forehead woke him slowly that morning.  Gendry grumbled softly, opening his eyes halfway to blink sleepily up at Arya as she leaned over him.  She’d pulled her hair back in a short, messy braid, several loose strands falling around her face.  He liked her hair loose, especially since it had grown a little longer in the handful of months they’d been reunited. 

 

“G’morning _Milady_ …” he murmured, smirking cheekily up at her.  She rolled her eyes, propping herself up on her elbow as she looked at him.  She’d woken with the dawn, as usual, and taken a few quiet hours to herself to watch the mist rise from the ground and listen to the forest come alive.  She was dressed in only trousers and a shirt, her boots still leaning against the tent pole.  The bottoms of her feet were brown from the dirt, but she liked the feeling of the ground under her toes.  No one else was around to make her wear shoes anymore. 

 

“Morning, _Milord_ … how was your featherbed last night?” she asked, gesturing to the pile of branches and furs.  In truth, it had been a good night’s sleep for them both.  She’d added enough padding to keep them off the hard ground, and the thick furs kept them from feeling any sticks from the branches that supported them.  It was no feather bed, but it was plenty soft. Gendry chuckled, stretching out on his back, resting his arms behind his head as he looked at her. 

 

“Mmm perfect… Have the servants finished cooking breakfast?” he teased, earning a snort of laughter from Arya.  He could hear the crackle of the fire, and the scent of cooking meat had started to tickle at his nose.  Clearly, she’d already had quite a productive morning while he’d been sleeping the day away. 

 

“Almost, but you should get up anyway… the sun’s been up for a while, and there are many important things to attend to…” She said mockingly, reaching out to draw circles on his bare chest.  He smiled at her, closing his eyes as he lounged in their bed.

 

“Nonsense, Lords get to sleep in ‘till midday” he joked, cracking one eye to look at her.  Gods, he loved this, the playful banter between them.  Everyone highborn was so serious all the time, with their proper words and customs.  He savored every moment they could spend like this, just the two of them, simple able to _be_.  She rolled her eyes at him, a sly smirk crossing her face as she sat up, looking at him over her shoulder. 

 

“Fine, Nymeria and I will eat all the bacon.  I’ll leave you to your featherbed, _Milord_ …” She said, standing up from her place on the bed, bowing mockingly to him before stepping out of the tent, the flap closing behind her. 

 

“Wait! I’m up, I’m up…” His rise from the low bed wasn’t nearly as graceful as hers had been.  He stumbled out of the bed, almost getting his foot tangled in the blankets as he tried to stand.  He pulled on his trousers and shirt, taking the time to put on his boots.  Arya might like the feeling of the ground under her toes, but he preferred to keep his feet warm. He pushed open the tent flap, squinting as he stepped out into the sunlight.  She hadn’t been lying, it was almost midmorning.  Nymeria was waiting rather impatiently on the other side of the firepit, her golden eyes focused on the bacon that was cooking over the flames.  Arya had driven two ‘y’ shaped sticks into either end of the firepit, and much like the tent had placed another stick between them. 

 

Gendry felt his stomach growl as the smell hit him, looking at the bacon as it sizzled over the fire.  Arya already had two chunks of bread sitting out for them, warming on a large flat stone near the flames.  She sat by the fire, resting her elbows on her knees as she warmed her toes by the flames.  He sunk down next to her, leaning over to press a kiss to her cheek.

 

“You should have woken me earlier; I would have helped…” he said, reaching out to play with the end of her braid, toying with the silky strands of her brown hair.  She chuckled, smiling over at him as she poked at the bacon with a thin stick. 

 

“You were pretty much dead to the world… I figured I’d just let you sleep, plus I enjoyed the solitude…” she confessed, flipping the pieces over carefully so they could crisp on the other side.  She had tried to wake him earlier when the sun had still been rising, but he’d just grumbled, and rolled over. 

 

“Getting tired of me already?” He said, raising his brows in mock indignation. She snorted and rolled her eyes at him, poking him in the leg with the tip of her stick before she leaned over to kiss him. 

 

“Never” she murmured, though the word was muffled by the kiss.  She reached out, curling her fingers through his, pulling back from the kiss to lean her head against his shoulder.  Any easy silence fell between them as they sat by the fire, Arya poking the bacon every couple of minutes until she decided it was done.  Quick as a flash, she scooped the strips of meat from the spit, depositing the slices onto the warm bread.  There had been seven strips over the fire, three for Arya and Gendry, and one for Nymeria.  The direwolf was perfectly capable of catching her own breakfast, but she clearly enjoyed the treat.

 

There was nothing to clean up after their meal, save a few crumbs of bread that Gendry brushed off his lap into the fire.  He looked around their little camp, getting up from his place by the fire.  He caught the turn of her head out of the corner of her eye, but she didn’t question him when he traipsed off into the forest without a word.  He didn’t need to explain that he’d be back shortly.  He was looking for something special.  It took some time, but finally he found what he wanted.  A good-sized log of dry basswood, only a couple of knots on it. 

 

It took longer to return to the camp with his prize, and by the time he made it back, Arya was preoccupied.  She moved almost silently through the grass of the clearing, her bare feet on the ground as she spun and twirled in her water dance forms.  She never missed a day of practice, even when it rained.  Clearly days off in the wilderness were no exception. 

 

Swinging an ax wasn’t much different than swinging a hammer.  It only took three strokes to cleave off a solid chunk of the log, and he leaned the rest of it up against a tree for safekeeping.  He settled down on the ground with his legs crossed, the hunk of wood he’d chopped off resting between his knees.  The knife he carried wasn’t anything special, not like Catspaw, but it was sharp and got the job done.  He pulled it from its sheath, testing the blade on the wood.  It made short, easy cuts, just the way he liked.

 

It didn’t take long for time to begin to slip away from him, the ground around him quickly covered with piles of pale wooden curls as he whittled away at the log.  It was starting to take shape slowly, the knife beginning to coax form from the wood.  Two figures, situated close, heads tipped skyward.  The larger of the two wolves sat atop a rock, her smaller brother standing slightly lower.  He’d spent so much time with both Nymeria and Ghost, it wasn’t hard to recall their image as he whittled away at the wood. 

 

Gendry wasn’t sure when exactly Arya had sat down on the forest floor a few feet away from him, but after he took a moment to stretch his fingers, he realized she had been watching him.  She’d seen him work in the forge, pounding steel into shape for blades and spears and a variety of weapons.  She’d never seen him carve before. The pommel for her sword had taken him several hours, this one would probably take him a few days.  His eyes found her face, and he felt a little flutter of pride at the impressed fascination she regarded him with.  Under the guise of a gruff blacksmith were the hands of a craftsman.

 

 Arya leaned in slightly, studying the carving.  She could already see the shapes of the wolves emerging, a smile crossing her face as she looked at him.  She had always loved watching him work, admiring the way he moved as he shaped the steel.  She enjoyed it very much the same now, watching the muscles in his brow twitch ever so slightly as he focused on what his hands were doing.  She could see Nymeria in her mind if she closed her eyes, but she didn’t think she could ever make that face appear out of wood or stone or even on paper with ink.  He had a talent and watching him work was fascinating. 

 

He set aside the unfinished carving, stretching his hands as he looked around them for the first time in quite a while.  He’d completely lost track of time, the sun now high in the sky, the air warm around them.  Arya simply smiled at him from a couple feet away, sitting back and looking up at the sky.

 

“Let’s go swimming…” Her words caught him off guard.  They hadn’t spoken in several hours.  Somehow, they’d perfected the art of being alone, together.  He’d gone off to carve, she’d done her water dancing, and yet seamlessly they came back together again, enjoying each other’s presence.  Still, he hadn’t expected swimming. She must have read the confused look on his face, elaborating on her spur of the moment idea. 

 

“I found a pool just a little way down the stream, deep enough to swim a little in, and it’s so warm now.” She said, stretching out her arms, looking at him. She’d practiced for nearly an hour, then wrestled with Nymeria and laid in the grass to enjoy the warmth of the sun.  It was midday and she was ready to cool down.

 

“This isn’t even summer, and you’re complaining about the heat…” he said, sighing as he shook his head.  He’d heard the Stormlands stayed cool on account of all the wind off the ocean.  He only hoped it would be cooler than Kings Landing.  That city could be scorching in the summer years, and he knew how she hated the heat. 

 

“I suppose I’ll have to get used to it” She said, standing up, offering him her hand.  He took it gladly.  She’d already put on her boots, and he left the carving and the pile of wood shavings behind as he followed her through the forest.  He didn’t bother putting it somewhere special, there was no one around to disturb it.  It was a quick hike to the pool she spoke of.  It was idyllic, the bottom of the pool lined with smooth stones, the water bubbling down over a few large stones in a small waterfall.

 

He barely had time to raise his brows when she stripped out of her boots and clothes and waded into the water. She walked in up to her waist, sinking down under the water to wet her hair, coming back up and turning back to him.  He could see the dark steel of the bull pendant that rested between her breasts, that warm feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t take long for his own clothes to join hers in a pile as he made his way into the water.

 

He did finally learn to swim after his adventures in the rowboat those years ago.  The pool got deep enough for them to even tread water if they wanted.  The water was definitely cold, but she seemed right at home there.  He waded in deeper, dunking his whole body under the water, coming back up to the grinning face of his she-wolf.  He was still cold, but he didn’t particularly mind. 

 

He let out a sigh, keeping most of his body under the water as he tipped his head back, closing his eyes.  If he didn’t think about it too much, it wasn’t that cold.  The splash of water that suddenly struck him in the face was very close to changing his mind though. He wiped the water out of his eyes, narrowing his blue gaze at a cackling she-wolf.  He lunged across the pool, sweeping his arms across the water as he tried to splash her back.  She managed to dodge most of his attack by diving around him, but she couldn’t get away when he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back.

 

Their laughter echoed around the forest, the only sound other than the birds and the occasional squirrel chattering away.  They splashed and wrestled and tickled each other mercilessly, Arya giving out an undignified squawk when Gendry grabbed one of her feet, tickling the bottom with his fingers.  He knew it was the only time she’d ever beg him for mercy.  She returned the favor, earning a very un-manly screech from the blacksmith when she’d tickled along his sides. When they were both out of breath and pink in the cheeks, they made their way to the shallow end, standing in the water as they recovered from their play fight. 

 

He held her in his arms, looking down at her with a smile as they tried to catch their breath, droplets of water dripping down their bodies.  He knew, life with her at his side was never going to be boring.  He looked forward to every wild adventure his she-wolf led him to.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry is an artist. Everyone else gets cool special skills! Arya's a faceless murder machine who sneaks around silently, Gendry needed some acknowledged skills other than beating on that steel! official new tag, artist!Gendry


	42. A Successful Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> The She-Wolf and the Stag return to the capitol

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Time slipped away from her in the forest.  She carved a notch into the support pole of their tent for every day they spent among the trees, just so she wouldn’t lose track.  It was easy to forget that there was a life to return to beyond their little clearing.  She woke each morning with the dawn, loving the quiet mornings.  Gendry woke with breakfast.  She couldn’t blame him for sleeping in, she’d grown quite fond of their makeshift bed herself.  With nowhere to be, nothing to do, and nothing but the sun to keep to the hours, she didn’t see the harm in letting him sleep. 

 

She spent much of the second day exploring the forest around their clearing.  She always found her way back, but she liked to walk slowly among the trees and let her mind wander.  She moved so quietly, she didn’t startle the deer that grazed for leaves and acorns on the forest floor.  If she kept to the shadows, she could watch them almost indefinitely until some other sound spooked them.  The crack of a branch, or the cry of a bird, eventually they’d all perk their heads up and bound off to a new part of the forest.

 

Gendry spent most of his time carving that day. He’d taken a little time to drag a couple logs closer to the firepit so he could have somewhere to sit, and somewhere to work on.  He sat on one log, the other standing between his knees, giving him a flat surface to press against as he worked.  He worked until his hands were sore and his back ached from leaning forward, turning over the carving in his hands.  The shapes were done, the wolves clearly visible now.  He’d started with Ghost’s face, carefully carving that scarred muzzle and jagged ear.  He’d finish Ghost tomorrow and start on Nymeria later. 

 

Arya was pleasantly surprised when she returned to their camp that afternoon.  There was a large pile of wood by the firepit, a heap of shavings to start the flames, and a blacksmith snoozing against the side of an equally sleepy direwolf.  She woke him when supper was almost ready.  She’d brought a few things to cook with, namely a small soup pot.  She’d chunked up some salted pork, a potato, and a couple of carrots that she’d packed and let it simmer over the fire until the smell woke both the wolf and the smith.

 

Gendry insisted on washing the pot in the stream after Arya had cooked, and she was secretly glad of it.  She’d rather cook over a flame than scrub a pot with leaves and sand.  As the light died around them, she led him into the grass of the clearing, laying down in the grass and gazing up at the sky as it turned brilliant pinks and oranges, slowly fading to deep purple and finally ink black. 

 

They lay in the darkness, talking quietly and telling stories about the stars until Arya could feel Gendry start to shiver.  When they returned to the tent, Arya noticed her clothes were damp from the dew on the grass.  By the light of their lone candle lantern, she stripped off her damp shirt and breeches, climbing into their bed naked, laying back on the furs and beckoning Gendry towards her.  Suddenly, he didn’t mind that his clothes were damp.  In the arms of his she-wolf, he didn’t feel the chill of the night air, not until the sweat began to cool on their skin as they panted side by side after their lovemaking. 

 

Every night, when the fire burned low and they started to yawn, they’d return to their bed of leaves and furs.  Arya spent the third day hunting in the forest, and they ate fresh rabbit for supper.  Even with a full belly and tired arms, the thought of protest never even crossed her mind when Gendry had started to nibble along her neck as they lounged by the fire.  Even when the events of the day had left them worn and weary, they still ended each day sweaty and satisfied in each other’s arms.

 

When six notches marked the tent pole, it was with reluctance that they broke down their camp and packed to return.  Gendry tucked the finished carving safely away into his pack.  It took him until the fifth day, but he’d managed to capture the two wolves in the grain of the wood.  He’d quite forgotten how much he enjoyed it.  He rather less enjoyed the ride back to Kings Landing.  Night had already settled over the city when they reached the main gates.  The Unsullied who stood guard let them in without even needing to ask who they were.  They were familiar with the Princess and her blacksmith. 

 

There were still traces of damage in the city. Some buildings had been too damaged to repair, and were being rebuilt, half finished skeletons of new structures rising from the streets.  There were new stones laid down where the wildfire had ripped through the streets, and many of the buildings had a new coat of paint over the stones to hide scorch marks.  Life was slowly returning to normal, though the new normal was better than it had been before.  Daenerys and Jon had immediately set up as much aid for the survivors as possible, making sure the poorest of the city could always find a bowl of soup and a place to sleep in one of their many shelters.

 

They rode through the city, reaching the Red Keep with tired eyes and tired horses after a long day in the saddle.  Arya let the servants tends to the horses, threading her fingers through Gendry’s as they made their way into the castle.  They were both a little dirty and a little wild, far to wild for such a place as Kings Landing.  Hopefully the Stormlands would forgive their wildness. 

 

Arya’s hand had barely touched the handle of her door when one of her brother’s soldiers came marching down the hall towards her.

 

“Lady Stark, the King asks that join him in the main hall for supper immediately” The man said, his eyes raking over the young woman before him.  Maybe if Jon had seen his little sister, he wouldn’t have been so impatient.  Her hair hadn’t been washed with anything but creek water in days, and there were smudges of dirt on her shirt.  If Jon really needed her so urgently, he’d just have to deal with the dirt. 

 

“Lead on then” she said, nodding to the man before she followed him down the hall, flanked by Gendry and Nymeria.  She wasn’t surprised to see Jon and Daenerys sitting at the long table, dressed in fine clothes and drinking fine wine.  She was surprised to see the bright red hair of her sister, a grin breaking across her face at the sight of Sansa.  Jon wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Arya look at her sister with so much love.  He let out a soft chuckle as Sansa stood just in time for Arya to barrel into her arms, squeezing her Lady sister tightly.  Sansa pulled back from the hug, placing her hands gently on Arya’s shoulders and raking her gaze over her grimy visage.

 

“Why are you always covered in dirt?” She scolded half-heartedly, smiling at her little sister.  Truthfully, she’d missed the wild young woman who was just as likely to spar with words as with swords.  Seeing Arya in a loose shirt and breeches with tangles in her hair and dirt on her cheek took her back to the days of their childhood.  Sansa had eventually become used to the cool, collected look Arya had worn those few months before at Winterfell.  She’d been happy then, but something had been missing.  That spark had returned to her little sister’s eyes, the one that had been so clearly missing upon her return to the North. 

 

“Why are you always so clean?” Arya teased back, reaching up to tap the tip of her sisters’ nose with a dirty finger, leaving a smudge there.  Sansa rolled her eyes, reaching up to wipe her nose with her sleeve, ridding herself of the dirt.  She chuckled, pulling her little sister into another hug.  She didn’t even mind the dirt. 

 

“I missed you” She said softly, tears threatening to prick at her eyes.  She’d received a raven after the battle had been won, but nothing compared to seeing Arya alive and well in the flesh.  Both of them had been so worried that they’d never see each other again.  Arya sighed against her sister’s hair, hugging her back tightly. Arya let the quiet hang between them for a few moments, pulling back to smile up at her pretty sister.

 

“I missed you too…When did you arrive?” Arya asked, stepping back slightly to give the other woman a little more breathing room.  Sansa looked very much the same as she had when Arya had last seen her, just with less tears.  There had been a greater change in the younger woman.  Her hair had grown a couple of inches, and the time spent in the warm sun of the south had tanned her cheeks slightly.

 

“Yesterday.  It wouldn’t do to miss the King and Queen’s wedding after all…” Sansa explained, smiling at her little sister.  A happy bark distracted the pair of them, Ghost bounding from Jon’s side to greet Nymeria.  The wolves rubbed their muzzles against the other, tails wagging happily as they reunited once more.  Nymeria gave a playful tug to her brother’s ear, Ghost licking her under the chin affectionately.

 

“I see you brought Ghost with you” Arya said, smiling fondly at the pair as they greeted each other happily.  Nymeria was now licking the top of Ghosts head, grooming him.  It was time for him to start smelling like the south pack now.  Sansa smiled, chuckling softly at the pair of wolves that stood beside them.   

 

“He was missing Jon quite terribly… kept laying on his bed, being a big whiner” Sansa said with mock scolding towards the white direwolf, reaching down to fondle his good ear gently.  Truthfully Ghost had followed his master’s orders and stayed rather close to her side, but she’d sometimes caught him napping in Jon’s old room, his nose pressed into the pillow where Jon had laid his head.  The wolf had missed his boy.  He didn’t even mind the warmth of the south if it meant he got to sleep at the foot of his boy’s bed again. 

 

“So, did you return with anything from your hunt?” Sansa asked, tilting her head as she sunk back into her chair.  Arya sat beside her, her gaze flickering to Jon for a moment as she accepted a goblet of wine from a servant.

 

“Only a Stag” she quipped, watching out of the corner of her eye as Jon choked on his wine. She didn’t respond to his reaction, keeping her attention mostly on Sansa.  She could see the pointed looks Jon was shooting at Gendry, but the blacksmith was a mask of stoicism.  He just chewed away at his supper, occasionally sipping at his wine, staring back at the King with a neutral gaze.  That trick he definitely had learned from watching Arya. 

 

“I’m sure it’s a fine prize” Sansa commented, taking a sip of her wine. She’d never enjoyed hunting, and the idea of skinning an animal made her stomach turn flips.  She knew how they got their meat, but she didn’t have to enjoy it.  Still, any trophy brought back by Arya would still receive her highest praise.  It was her little sister after all.  Arya smiled, sipping from her own glass as she looked from her sister briefly to Jon’s befuddled face.  She’d won again.  Her smile turned into a grin as she straightened her shoulders slightly, puffing up her chest a bit. 

 

“Yes, it is”

 

 

 


	43. Breaking the Wheel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> The King and Queen call a meeting to discuss the future.

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Arya was not a fan of being summoned for meetings.  It was the day after they’d returned to the city, and she had been looking forward to a brief respite before the politics began again.  It seemed she would get no such relief.  She’d been called away from practicing with a bow in the sparring yard and judging by the soot already clinging to Gendry’s skin, he’d been called away from his work in the forge.  She wasn’t accustomed to being called into meetings in the chamber of the Hand.  In fact, she’d rarely seen Tyrion in the weeks that she’d spent in Kings Landing.  Organizing a royal wedding, a coronation, and trying to rebuild a fractured country was quite the task.

 

She was surprised to find two seats left vacant directly to Jon’s right.  Her brother loved and trusted her, but she still wasn’t prepared for a seat at his side during a serious meeting.  She sunk into the chair beside him, Gendry taking up his seat beside her.  Nymeria found a comfortable place by the fireplace with Ghost, the pair of wolves lounging side by side as the room filled. 

 

Tyrion sat to Daenery’s side, and when Sansa swept gracefully into the room, she took a seat next to the dwarf.  Their marriage had been a sham, but the two held no bitterness towards each other anymore.  Not after what they faced together in the crypts of Winterfell during the Battle for the Dawn.  The six of them sat around the table, silence gathering in the room before the Queen broke the silence.

 

“We have a few matters to discuss with you all today.  I wanted to have these issues resolved before they are overshadowed with celebrations.” She said, looking around at the few facts that sat around the table.  There were still several cabinet positions to appoint, she and Jon were handling the majority of issues personally for the time being.  Until they knew who they could trust, they would manage the ruling of their Kingdoms.

 

“First, the matter of the north…” Those words brought a tense silence over the room as all eyes turned to the redhead.  Sansa held her head high, meeting the violet gaze of the Daenerys confidently. 

 

“There is still discontent among the lords of the north, your grace.  They feel betrayed that Jon is a Targaryen now.” She said, raising a brow at the Dragon Queen.  Arya watched as the two powerful woman squared up.  She could feel the tension crackling in the air, like static before a thunderstorm. 

 

“He was always a Targaryen.” Daenerys quipped, raising her brows at Sansa, tilting her head to the side slightly.  Sansa shook her head, folding her hands in her lap as she looked at the King and Queen. 

 

“Not to them.  Before he was a Stark, even as a bastard, and the lords in the north will only follow a Stark now.” She said, locking eyes with Jon.  She could see the guilty look on his face.  He’d fought with those men, ridden with them to two wars, and their distrust of him now stung.  He couldn’t help that he was half dragon, but he also couldn’t begrudge them their doubts.  The last time a Targaryen had sat on the throne, their lord Stark had been murdered in cold blood.  His true name meant they could never give him their trust, not after all they had suffered. 

 

“Will they name Brandon Stark as King in the North?” Daenerys asked, probing the red wolf for answers, though she’d heard from the young man himself that he would never take a title or a lordship.  Sansa shook her head again, her eyes scanning around the room, locking with Arya’s gray eyes. 

 

“He has refused all titles, including that of Lord of Winterfell.” She said, Arya giving a small nod.  Bran wasn’t really their brother any more.  He knew so many things, the young man they had loved was lost somewhere beneath the knowledge.  The two she-wolves looked at each other.  They both knew where this conversation was leading.

 

“Then who would they name?”

 

“Several times they have attempted to name me Queen in the North.  I told them I would not start another war for our freedom after we so recently returned home with our lives.” Arya could see the pride in Sansa’s face at having the support of the Northern Lords.  They’d raised concerns about Jon after he’d bent the knee to Daenerys.  They loved Sansa though.  Their Lady had led them through the Battle of the Dawn, though the war in the south, and now they were ready to follow her through winter. 

 

“A wise choice.” Daenerys said, a small smile crossing her face, though it fell away at Sansa’s next words.

 

“Yet we cannot accept southern rule any longer.  We are the furthest kingdom, set apart from the rest of the country.  Things are different in the north.  Many years ago, my forefathers bent the knee to yours, but times have changed.  It is time for the North to be free once more.” She declared, meeting the Dragon Queens ferocious gaze head on.  The dragon and the wolf were squaring up again.  The air was thick with tension, and it was only when a discontented growl rumbled from Nymeria’s chest that the two women broke their staring match. 

 

“You know where I stand on which kingdoms belong to this crown” Dany bit out, her lips curled down into a frown as she started at Sansa.  Sansa kept her cool, impassive expression, letting out a long breath from her nose as she tried to control the emotions that rose up in her chest. 

 

“Your Grace, with a southern ruler, it is not a matter of if the lords of the north will rebel, it is when.  When they decide they’ve had enough and band together, with or without the support of Winterfell, you will have war on your hands again.” Arya knew her sister spoke the truth.  She’d seen the way the northern lords had rallied behind her sister.  She’d heard their distrust of the Targaryens and knew of their deep love for the Stark name.  Even if Sansa never condoned an uprising, she knew it would only be a matter of time before the lords decided they’d had enough of bowing to dragons.  

 

“And you would have them name you Queen in the North?” Daenerys’s words were like ice as she stared down the other woman.  Sansa stared right back, raising one finely arched brow at the other woman.  She wouldn’t force the northmen to name her Queen, but if it wouldn’t cause a war, she had no qualms about them putting a crown on her head.  She already ran Winterfell expertly.  She took care of her people, and they loved her for it.  They’d been trying to crown her ever since Daenerys left for Kings Landing those months prior.  It wouldn’t take any convincing for them to crown her upon her return to Winterfell. 

 

“Our Kingdoms would exist as close allies and friends.  Blood or not, Jon is still my brother, and I would do all within my power to keep our ties strong.” Sansa bit back, narrowing her eyes at the blonde.  She didn’t want to fight with the Dragon Queen, she saw how much it pained Jon for them to disagree, but the North needed to be free.  Much like the beast from which they took their sigil, they needed this.  Freedom was the only option.  Jon sighed, looking at Daenerys.  He could see the anger in her eyes, barely controlled as she clenched her jaw.  He reached out, taking her hand in his own, breaking her attention from Sansa.

 

He gave his queen a pointed look, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand gently.  His ice cooled her fire once more and she took a deep breath, the tension in her jaw relaxing.  They’d promised to discuss things, and Dany knew the look Jon was giving her meant they needed to talk.  She breathed a soft sigh, pulling her hand from the Kings as she rose. 

 

“Please excuse us briefly, we will return with your answer.” She said, nodding to those around the table.  Jon rose and followed her from the room out into the hall, closing the door behind them.  Silence fell among those who remained at the table.  Sansa was doing a very good job of not looking directly at Tyrion, and the golden-haired man was looking deeply into the bottom of his wine glass.  It seemed he’d taken up the habit again, now that his Queen was finally on her throne.

 

Arya let out a soft sigh, leaning her arms against the table, studying the grain of the wood.  She knew the King and Queen needed to come to an agreement, but did they have to take quite so long?  In reality, it was only a handful of minutes, but in the silence of room, it felt like hours.  She almost jumped when she felt Gendry’s hand slide along her thigh, squeezing her knee gently as he leaned over to her.

 

“You know, if Sansa becomes Queen in the North, that would make you a princess twice over,” he whispered, raising a brow at her as he smirked at her playfully.  She sat up, giving him a mock scowl, rolling her eyes at him.

  
“Shush before I stab you” she hissed, narrowing her eyes at her blacksmith, though there was no malice in them.  She only threatened him _because_ she loved him.

 

“Of course, _Milady_ ” he teased, leaning away from her slightly, bracing for a smack on the arm or a punch to the shoulder.  He almost jumped a bit when the door to the room opened and the King and Queen walked back inside, taking their places at the head of the table once more.  Gendry glanced over at Arya, watching as she wiped the scowl off her face.  She looked back at him, her eyes smoldering with vengeance.  He’d pay for that later, in all the best ways.  Jon cleared his throat, the eyes on the table focusing back on the King. 

 

“We have come to an agreement that an independent North would be in everyone’s best interests.  However, you will still grant safe passage to any citizen of the Six Kingdoms through your lands, and we expect strong trade relations to continue with the North” He looked far more pleased with these words than Daenerys, but he wouldn’t be saying them if they had not agreed.  They all knew that peace as separate Kingdoms was better than war as united ones, even if war would take a few years to brew.  The North was tired, and they were done bowing to those in the south. 

 

“Agreed” Sansa gave a small and polite smile, though Arya could see the excitement behind her sister’s eyes at her victory.  Arya could feel a smile curling over her own face as she looked between her siblings.  It was a good day for the North.  Her focus shifted when the Dragon Queen leaned forward slightly, resting her clasped hands on the table as she looked at Sansa.

 

“Furthermore, should the opportunity arise, we would seek to join our houses and Kingdoms with the stronger alliance of marriage.  If the day comes when both our houses have heirs, we would like an arrangement to be considered to cement the ties between our countries” Dany still doubted her ability to have children, and Sansa wasn’t even entertaining the idea of marriage at the moment. If there was ever going to be an alliance of marriage between The North and The Six Kingdoms, it was a long time coming.  Even so, Arya found a scowl settling over her face at the prospect.  This was supposed to be change, and yet they were already bargaining with the lives of those yet unborn.

 

“You expect a Northern princess to ride south and be willing to stay as Queen? Starks are wolves, we don’t do well in captivity” Arya snapped, looking at Jon and Daenerys incredulously. Jon especially.  He knew what it was like for the fate of your life not to be in your own hands.  He knew how wild those from the north could be. How could he even propose trying to cage a she-wolf of Winterfell with a southern marriage before they even drew breath as more than an idea. Jon cleared his throat uncomfortably, Daenerys reaching out to grasp his hand gently, squeezing his fingers.  Arya didn’t miss the gesture, it was very much similar to the way Gendry had grasped her hand when they’d first eaten supper with the Dragon Queen back in Winterfell.  Only a few weeks ago, and yet it felt like a lifetime. 

 

“That brings up another topic we wanted to discuss with you all...  We haven’t yet informed the lords of the remaining kingdoms, but we have decided there will be changes to the rules of inheritance.” The Queen said, a flash of pride crossing her face as she looked around the table.  She’d always meant it when she said she would make changes. A small smile crossed Jon’s face as he returned the gentle squeeze back to Dany, looking at the rest of the council. 

 

“Across the… Six Kingdoms, the first-born child will now inherit all lands and titles of their family.” He said, Dany’s smile widening as she looked at him.  When it had come to issues close to her heart, she hadn’t expected Jon to be so fully behind this change.  He’d agreed immediately when she brought it up, his mind racing to the situation they were in themselves.  She was the one who had wanted to rule, but with his father as the crown prince, his claim preceded hers, even though he never wanted it.  He would have changed it if he’d been able, and now that he was King, he could make that change. 

 

“Child… not son?” Gendry broke the silence, raising a brow at the King and Queen. He too approved of the change.  No child ever should made to suffer from the nature of their birth.  He’d need to perhaps have a talk with Jon and Daenerys about the laws regarding bastards. Dany nodded to him, lifting her chin proudly.  She always had difficulty with the Stark women, but she could see the clear approval for her words on their faces.  It wasn’t perfect, but perhaps it was the start of lessening tensions between the three of them.

 

“The time has come for the world to realize that a woman can lead just as effectively as a man.  As well as changing the rules of inheritance, any noble Lady who leads her house will not have to cede her family name upon marriage, and her children would bear the name of her house.” Sansa locked eyes with the Queen, blue eyes meeting violet. For perhaps the first time, the redhead truly smiled at the Dragon Queen, a small flicker of warmth finding its way into her gaze.  When Daenerys spoke of breaking the wheel and bringing about change, Sansa hadn’t believed that there would be real change.  Now she could see that Dany was committed, truly committed to making her world a better place for those who lived in it.

 

“So perhaps someday the North will send a prince to the capitol to wed a southern princess.  Time will tell.  There are many years to come and many things must change before that day may ever come to pass.” She said, resting her folded hands on the tabletop, a smile still lingering on her face as the Dragon Queen nodded.

 

“Indeed.” A brief silence fell around the table, a pleased look resting on everyone’s faces.  The decision on the North had been tense, but the change to inheritance had gone over smoothly.  Jon knew it wouldn’t sit as well with the rest of the Lords of the realm, but the days of daughters being set aside for their brothers was done.  If his sisters and his betrothed were proof of anything, it was that woman made some of the most formidable leaders he’d ever encountered.  Even Cersei had been formidable, despite her eventual madness.  There was still one more issue that plagued the King.  He drew their focus back, clearing his throat as his eyes settled on the blacksmith who had been almost silent the whole meeting. 

 

“Now the final matter… there is still growing unrest in Storms End.  They lack leadership and increased discontent pours from the area.  Gendry… you promised me an answer” The King stared at the smith pointedly, watching the blue-eyed man closely.  Arya had a tricky was of using truth to tell lies, and Jon still wasn’t sure if she’d agreed to be Lady of storms end or if she’d really brought back a buck from their hunt.  Maybe both?

 

“I know I did…” Gendry said, his eyes flicking from Arya back to the King.  He would admit, he was making the King work for the answer just a little bit.  He didn’t have the teasing camaraderie that Jon and Arya had, but he still liked to toy with his good friend. 

 

“And?” Jon raised a brow at the smith, tilting his head to the side slightly.  The King glanced from Gendry to Arya, but she was a mask of indifference, lips pursed ever so slightly as she regarded her brother with one slightly quirked eyebrow. She knew the answer, of course, but this was Gendry’s moment.

 

“Only because you asked, I will accept the name of Baratheon and the title of Lord of Storms End, if both your majesties will still grant it to me” He said, looking between the King and Queen.  A flash of surprise crossed Daenerys’s face as she glanced over at her King.  Up until now, they’d discussed everything together beforehand, but it seemed this one time they were in agreement without needing to discuss it.  Daenerys had wanted to name Gendry as Lord back in Winterfell but had worried about his loyalties to the Starks. Now with him betrothed to Jon’s sister in truth this time, his ties to the Starks simply meant that Storms End and the Crown would be close friends.  When she’d sought the throne alone, he was a threat.  Now she and Jon ruled together, and he would be nothing but an asset.

 

“So granted.  I, Daenerys Targaryen, name you Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storms End, Warden of the Stormlands.” She said, smiling at the blacksmith.  Dany knew with Arya Stark at his side, he’d be a fine lord.  Perhaps not one with the best manners, Arya was a terrible example of a traditional lady, but nothing was really very traditional anymore.

 

“I, Jon Targaryen, second this naming.  To Lord Baratheon.” Jon said, smiling and nodding to his friend.  He wasn’t sure how Gendry had convinced Arya to let him be Lord of Storms End and not immediately break off the engagement, but somehow the blacksmith had found the right words.  He saw the way the smith looked at his sister.  At first, he’d been so furious with the pair of them, but when Gendry looked at Arya, he saw the love on the mans face, plain as day.  That man would never do anything to purposefully make his sister unhappy.  Whatever he’d promised her for her to agree, he had no doubt that the pair of them would cause quite an uproar in Storms End.  Their new Lord and Lady, a blacksmith and a she-wolf.  The Stormlands would never be the same.

 

“Congratulations, Lord Baratheon.  When should we start reviewing proposals for the new Lord of Storms End?  I’m sure you’ll be very popular with the ladies.”  For someone who had always claimed to be so clever, the Imp certainly lacked perception these days.  Everyone at the table looked at Tyrion with slight confusion on their faces.  They’d all seen the blacksmith trailing after Arya for months, and it was common knowledge that they shared a bed at nights.  Their betrothal might be a secret, but that still didn’t excuse the complete lack of awareness on the part of the dwarf.  Somehow Arya couldn’t blame him totally. Running the country was hard, how could he have time to remember the romance of the Kings sister? Perhaps it was the wine.  The Imp had been out of practice for several years, his tolerance had waned slightly.

 

“There will be no need, Lord Tyrion.  I will be joining Lord Baratheon as Lady of Storms End, after we marry.”  Arya said, reaching out to take Gendry’s hand in her own, squeezing his fingers gently.  Gendry grinned broadly, squeezing her hand back.  Arya glanced at him, seeing the way his eyes raked over her face, settling on her lips.  As much as she could tell how he wanted to kiss her, now was not the time or place.  She’d make it up to him later. Sansa’s shocked exclamation snapped her back to the council before her, a wry smile curling across her lips.

 

“Marry?!” Arya enjoyed the look of shock that settled over Sansa’s face. Clearly Jon had not taken the time to tell her about Gendry’s proposal and her acceptance. She glanced over to the King, a small smile crossing her face as she saw the subtle smugness on her brother’s face.  He’d intended it to be a shock to their sister, though not in a cruel way. What was life if you couldn’t tease your siblings after all?  It was Arya life, and it was Arya’s place to tell her sister of her plans. 

 

“Sansa, I meant to ask, may we accompany you back to Winterfell after the coronation?  I’d like to be married in the Godswood at home” She said, smiling at her gob smacked sister. Sansa just stared at Arya with wide eyes for a long moment, her pretty mouth opening and closing a couple times as she tried to find the right words.  It had been shocking enough to learn her sister, of all people, had fallen in love. Now that wild sister of hers, who had promised never to wed or be someone’s Lady, was asking to be married in the Godswood of their family home.  In some ways, love had tempered her little sister.  There didn’t need to be so much ferocity in the younger she-wolf, not anymore. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.  Arya had her own pack now. 

 

“…Of course, you will always be welcome at Winterfell” Sansa said, smiling across the table at her little sister.  She’d have to hug the other woman later, when they had a moment alone.  She’d need to have measurements taken for Arya and Gendry immediately so she could send a raven to the seamstresses in the north so they could prepare ahead of time.  Even a month and a half was hardly much time for wedding clothes.  Arya wrinkled her nose at her fair sister, rolling her eyes at the wistful look on her sister’s face.

 

“Don’t look so pleased, you’re still never going to get me to wear a dress…” she quipped, raising a brow at her sister.  Arya could already see the gears turning in the other woman’s imagination.  There would be no dress for her, she’d get married in whatever she damn well pleased, even if it was that day’s riding jerkin.  Sansa chuckled at her little sister, raising one fine red brow as she looked back at the younger Stark woman. 

 

“We’ll see, little sister”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took forever to get posted, I was super tired yesterday and had to nap half way through this one. Politics, my dudes...


	44. Until the End of My Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Multiple
> 
> A royal wedding is a rather grand affair.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

In the days leading up to the royal wedding, the young Lord Baratheon had never seen a more endless stream of activity.  Servants bustled around the castle, cleaning the halls and rooms, organizing the arriving lords and ladies into chambers, trying to keep disagreements from breaking out about who got to sleep where based on rank.  The cooks had been busy for days, preparing far ahead of time for the wedding feast, especially the fantastical cake that had been designed for the event.  The castle was noisy and busy and alive with activity.

 

No one was allowed in the main throne room, the King and Queen listening to the problems of their people in the courtyard of the red keep. A small pavilion had been erected in the courtyard to provide shade for the monarchs and the subjects who came to beg their case.  It was all still very routine, but either Jon or Dany would listen closely and provide an answer to their subjects.  For more difficult matters, they might step aside for several minutes to discuss before giving an answer.   It didn’t take long for whispers to spread through the city and the country.  The King and Queen were good and kind and listened to the troubles of their people.

 

When the sun started to sink low and the long line of people dispersed, Gendry had been surprised to find that Jon had started dragging him away from the forge to spar in the training yard.  The pressure of ruling and the upcoming wedding was weighing on his good friend, and there was no better way to get out frustration than with a good sparring session. 

 

When they both were panting and could barely lift their weapons, they’d stop and lean against the pillars of the training yard and talk.  Gendry wasn’t sure what Jon was going to do when he left for Storms End.  He’d have to get Arya to read him Jon’s letters.  He’d still never learned to read, even though he would now that he was a Lord.  A task he was not looking forward to.

 

“You nearly took my arm off today, brother… what’s bothering you?” Gendry asked, stretching his arms.  The King had fought hard with Longclaw, the blade digging into the handle of his Warhammer. It must have been a particularly troubling day listening to the people.  Jon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he looked at the blacksmith turned Lord.

 

“Bandits outside the city, ambushing some of the commonfolk who are coming to the city for the wedding.  They know to stay clear of the Lords company and guards, they only pick off the smallfolk.” The King was worried.  The Unsullied were keeping the peace throughout the city, but there had been so many lives lost across the country, it was difficult to find enough men to protect the villages and towns along the roads.  The Northmen who’d ridden south with the King would ride home with Sansa, leaving them with even less support around the city.

 

“What will you do?” Gendry asked, wiping his forehead with a cloth before offering it to the King.  Jon took the opportunity to wipe his own face, sighing again as he handed the cloth back to the other man. 

 

“We’ve sent troops to try to track them down and stop the raiding.” Jon said, looking down at Longclaw for a long moment before he sheathed the blade, running his fingers over the wolf’s head pommel.  A concerned frown crossed the Kings face as he looked back to the new Lord of Storms End.

 

“Don’t tell Arya, I know she’d probably ride off to kill them all herself” The King said, frowning down at his hands.  Gendry let out a sigh, reaching out to squeeze the other man’s shoulder playfully.

 

“She probably already knows…” He confessed, raising a brow at the King, a smile settling over his face.  Jon looked at Gendry, a smile cracking over his face as he shook his head.  Arya had been immersing herself ever more deeply into the workings of this city.  If she wasn’t already bound for Storms End, he might have named her Master of Whispers.  There were few things that could be hidden from Arya anymore.

 

“Good point” The King said, clapping Gendry on the shoulder in return.  The pair smiled at each other, leaving side by side as they headed towards the great hall for supper.

 

\- - - - - 

 

-  Arya  -

 

 

Arya had her hackles up.  Gendry watched her as she paced the castle, keeping herself pressed to the shadows when she could, gray eyes cautious and calculating as she eyed the visitors.  She’d taken to prowling the halls with Catspaw and her new blade, Stormbreaker, firmly secured to her hip.  As the castle had filled with people, she’d grown ever more like the caged wolf, pacing back and forth, never standing still, eyes searching for threats.

 

She’d taken to shadowing her brother and the Queen around the castle, keeping just far enough behind them that she could keep an eye on them.  All these people caused her unrest, some even causing the hairs to stand up on the back of her neck and gooseflesh to prick at her arms.  She’d started ordering Nymeria to guard the royal couple when she could not.  The two great direwolves flanked the monarchs, Ghost at Jon’s side, Nymeria at Daenerys’s.  As Arya had come to accept Dany, so had Nymeria, though the Queen was still not allowed to pet her.  That privilege was reserved for pack only. 

 

The night before the wedding, as they all sat around the great table for supper, Arya could feel that discomfort building in the pit of her stomach.  From her place across the table from Jon, she kept a watchful eye on the couple as she ate her supper, though that uneasy feeling continued to build in her.  She laid down her fork, taking a sip of her wine, resting her hands in her lap briefly before she moved ever so slowly to pull Catspaw from its sheath.  Even though she moved slowly, Gendry took notice.  Even at supper they sat close, and he could feel the shift in her.  His eyes flicked over to rake over her face, but she didn’t look at her blacksmith.

 

Servants moved around the room, refilling goblets and offering food.  Jon had just said something that Daenerys had found funny, since she leaned towards her King, a smile on her face as she laughed with him.  Just as love had brought Arya back to herself, it seemed the same could be said for the Dragon Queen.  That hungry conqueror had stepped aside to reveal a severe but good-hearted young woman. 

 

Arya almost felt as though time slowed, and before she could truly think she had stood quickly from her chair, sending Catspaw flying across the room.  A serving girl screamed as one of the male servants crumpled to the ground, the Valyrian steel dagger buried in his shoulder.  Arya leaped across the table, dancing around the dishes as she jumped down on the other side.  She ground the wrist of the man beneath the heel of her boot, forcing him to release his grip on the tiny dagger that had been grasped there.  She’d drawn Stormbreaker, the slender blade pressed under the would-be assassin’s throat.

 

By the time Arya had the man pinned, the room had erupted into chaos.  The Unsullied had rushed over, spears now pointed at the man, others moving to block the exits.  The smile had been torn from the Queen’s face as she looked on in shock.  An assassin in her own palace, the day before her wedding.  It seemed that she would never truly be safe, though she was infinitely grateful for the younger Stark woman. 

 

Arya scowled down at the man, keeping her blade at his throat as she crouched to pick up the dagger.  It was small, barely four inches long.  Not long enough to do any real damage.  She lifted it to her nose, giving the blade a cursory sniff, wrinkling her nose.  Poisoned. Just a quick prick and the Queen would have been dead. 

 

She sheathed her sword, pressing her boot to his chest, leaning down and meeting the man’s eyes. Her gray gaze met hazel; she could see the fear there.  Trying to kill the Queen was bad enough, but he’d been caught.  What torment would lie in store for the man who would bring down the Kingdom if he could?

 

“Who do you work for?” She growled, gripping the handle of the dagger that was deep in his shoulder, the man letting out a moan of pain as she pressed the dagger deeper into his flesh. 

 

“ _Se dāria ēza naenie qrinuntyssy / the Queen has many enemies_ ” he hissed out, narrowing his eyes at the she-wolf atop him.  Arya narrowed her gaze as well, a snarl of rage curling across her face.  She leaned her weight into the blade, starting to twist the handle slowly as she pressed it deeper.  She smiled when he screamed.

 

“ _Ivestragon nyke / tell me_ ” Arya snarled, keeping him pinned even with her light figure as he squirmed under the twisting of her blade.  She gave one final push before stopping her torment, the assassin panting hard from the pain.  His hazel eyes met hers, and slowly he shook his head.

 

“ _Morghon ēlī / death first_ ” There was resignation in the man’s eyes.  No matter how she twisted or tortured, there would be no answer from this man, at least not a truthful one. 

 

“ _Aōhoso / as you wish_ ” Arya, looked down at the man, reaching over to where she’d laid the dagger that had been meant to kill the Queen.  She turned it over in her fingers carefully, making sure not to touch the blade as she studied it.  She turned her gaze back to the man, a dark smile curling over her face as she saw the realization in his eyes suddenly turn to sheer terror.  She leaned down, her face inches from his, gripping his jaw in one hand, forcing his eyes to meet hers.  She let the tip of the dagger trail along the cloth of his tunic briefly before she lifted it to his face, watching as he eyed the blade in fear. 

 

“ _Skoros ao jeldan syt zirȳla, sir ao kessa laehurlion. / what you wished for her, now you shall face_.” She said quietly, pressing the blade against his cheek, drawing the knife along his skin to leave a thin cut there.  She made sure to run the full edge of the blade across his skin.  She wanted to make sure the poison did its work.  From what she had smelled, it was a slow acting poison similar to the strangler.  It worked through the body slowly over several hours, and when it had sunk into every crevice in the body it would begin to break it down.  Blood would pour from every hole and the victim would die in agony.  A fitting punishment for this crime.

 

Daenerys rose from her chair, looking down at the man who now lay curled on the floor, tears running down his cheeks.  Arya pulled her dagger from his chest, wiping the mans blood off on his own tunic before she sheathed the blade.  Two Unsullied dragged the man away, though his time spent in the black cells wouldn’t be very long.  Dany reached out, touching Arya on the upper arm lightly.  She so rarely tried to touch the younger Stark woman, but she reached out now. 

 

“Arya… Thank you, I owe you my life twice over now” The Queen said, looking at the other young woman with a sincere smile on her face.  It had been a few years since someone had come so close to killing her, and it reminded her why she needed to increase her guards once more.  Arya glanced down at the spot where Daenerys had touched her arm, then back to the Dragon Queen’s face.  Her own look softened and she let out a slow breath before she extended her arm to the Queen to grasp. 

 

“I was just protecting my family, that’s all…” She said, raising her chin slightly.  Dany’s brows raised at the gesture of friendship extended to her by the she-wolf. Arya had never really warmed to the Dragon Queen, but she would be marrying Jon tomorrow.  She was going to have to spend many years with the Queen and King as her family.  She saw the way Jon looked at Daenerys, even if things were complicated between them.  He’d accepted her as part of his own pack, it was time for Arya to accept her too.  Daenerys reached out, grasping Arya’s arm firmly, a flicker of real joy passing through the Queens eyes.

 

“I shall have to find a way to repay you someday” She said, smiling at the younger woman.  Arya raised a brow, a smirk pulling over her lips at those words.  A favor from the Queen might go along way someday.  She always had pull with her brother, but she could think of a few things she might only want to discuss with another woman.

 

“I’m sure I’ll think of something” She said, letting go of Daenerys’s arm, smiling at the Queen. 

 

“Who taught you to speak Valyrian?” Daenerys asked, tilting her head slightly as she sat back down, raising a brow at the dark-haired woman.  A mischievous smile danced across her face as she eyed the Queen, tiling her head slightly in return. 

 

“No One” If Daenerys was going to be part of the pack, she deserved a little teasing.

 

\- - - - -

 

-  Daenerys  -

 

 

Daenerys woke on the day of her wedding alone.  It was tradition for the bride and groom not to see each other until the ceremony, but Jon had not frequented her room since their betrothal.  She wasn’t sure what to do with herself for the day.  The ceremony would take place in the throne room just before sunset, she had several hours before she needed to start preparing.  She moved through the castle with two soldiers flanking her, heading out a new seaward facing exit that led her down to a newly formed cave beneath the cliffs on which the red keep stood.

 

During the battle those few months prior, several large caves had been exposed when the ground shook as the city burned, and she’d had the masons carve a set of stairs from the Red Keep down to the cave that Drogon had taken up residence in.  She always made sure he had plenty of livestock to eat, but he could easily feed himself.  Sometimes he flew off for several days, and when he returned, he usually wouldn’t eat for a day or so.  She’d not had ravens flying in telling stories of a great winged monster terrorizing the land, so he must have been flying across the sea to do his hunting. 

 

Drogon lifted his great head when she stepped into the cave, letting out a low rumble as she approached.  He pressed his nose into her outstretched hand, half closing his deep red eyes as he leaned into the touch.  Dany smiled, running her fingers over his smooth scales, letting out a sigh of contentment before she walked around to his shoulder.  He shifted his weight so she could climb up his wing.  It had been a long time since he’d felt her small but familiar weight on his shoulders. 

 

That warmth that was always present in Dany’s mind grew now that she sat atop Drogons back.  She grasped onto the spines on his neck, leaning her body down against his.  Once they were this close, the bond between them became like a bridge, their minds twining together as they began to move.  They stood from the cave floor, stretching their body before pacing forward towards the edge of the cave.  They took to the sky, the pair letting out their own cries of joy, though the sounds from the Dragon echoed over the ocean. 

 

They loved the feeling of the wind under their wings and rushing over their skin.  There was nothing better than the freedom of flying.  They took their time to fly along the coastline, putting the land to memory as they flew.  Sometimes they dipped low to skim their claws along the waves of the ocean.  Sometimes they flew high until the air turned icy and bit at their skin.  they spent hours flying before noticing that the sun was beginning to turn towards the horizon again.  It was time to return.

 

They returned to the cave, Dany sliding from Drogon’s back with ease, running her hand along his neck lovingly as the great dragon let out a pleased rumble.  It had been so long since they’d gone flying together.  She needed to visit him here more often, on the days when he wasn’t off on adventures.  She was windswept and untidy when she returned to her chambers, several of her handmaidens nearly fainting with joy to see her again.  They fussed over the Queen, that she had left it so late to begin dressing for her wedding.

 

Daenerys climbed into the bath they’d prepared for her, enjoying the hot water as they washed her hair and brushed out the tangles.  Clean and relaxed, she let them dry her before they started helping her into her wedding gown. The gown was made of white fabric that she couldn’t name, but she loved the feel of it against her skin.  the sleeves were long and flowing, the bodice fit snuggly around her chest and stomach, and the skirts flared out at her hips into a long train.  Her handmaidens twisted her hair up into several braids, though the let the ends cascade in gentle curls down her back.  They affixed a small silver tiara to her head, the silver dragons nestled gently into her hair. 

 

By the time they had finished, the sun was nearly setting. A servant came to knock on the door, requesting that the Queen make her way to the entrance to the throne room.  The ceremony would begin as soon as she was ready.  Dany could feel her heart begin to race as she looked in the mirror, looking over herself. She looked every inch a queen, beautiful and powerful in her own right.  It was only in her eyes that she could see her own nerves, worry tinged with excitement.  For the first time in her life, she married for love, but that love wasn’t going to be an easy one. 

 

She left her room finally, making her way down the hall towards the throne room.  She could hear the muttering of the people inside, and that knot of excitement and nerves that was building in her stomach only tightened.  She stood with her head held high and her hands clasped in front of her as she stood before the doors.  The Unsullied that stood there pushed the doors open, and as they began to move, a sudden hush fell over the throne room.  A couple hundred faces stared at her from the aisles, but she didn’t see them.

 

When she saw him, it was as though they stood alone in the massive throne room.  The faces of the onlookers melted away, and there was only them.  He stood before the throne, dressed in a fine black tunic with the Targaryen sigil stitched in red across the chest.  Two Stark direwolves were stitched into the shoulders of his clothes in silver thread, proudly displaying the name of the family that he had called his own all his life.  He may have never been a recognized Stark, but he embodied the honor and kindness of his late father.  He even looked like Lord Eddard that day, his beard trimmed carefully, hair pulled back on top into a tight knot. 

 

The look on his face when he saw Daenerys made her heart turn flips, and it was all she could do to keep herself from running down the aisle into his arms.  The joy and longing his eyes held drew her in like a moth to a flame.  She found her feet moving without permission down the throne room towards him.  She had to remind herself to walk slowly, each measured step towards Jon making it just a little more difficult.

 

She climbed the steps to the throne, turning to face her King, the full room coming back into focus finally.  She glanced around them, pleased to find familiar faces around her.  Arya stood behind Jon, arms folded behind her back as she watched on.  She was armed, no doubt having insisted upon being there to protect the royal couple were to anything be attempted.  Sansa stood behind her younger sister, a smile on the redhead’s face.  Tyrion stood on Daenerys’s side, the Hand staying close to his queen. 

 

She turned her gaze back to Jon, reaching her hand out for his, smiling as his fingers curled through hers.  Samwell Tarly stood before them, dressed in his Maester’s robes, a smile on his round face as he looked at them.  He didn’t carry a book of the seven, he carried no book at all.  He’d received very specific words to recite from Daenerys, words that she hadn’t even shared with Jon.  He cleared his throat, pulling a long strip of white fabric from the sleeve of his cloak.  He wrapped it around their joined hands, saying the words as he tied their wrists together.

 

“As you are the Moon of his life, he shall be your Sun and Stars. Your love shall be as ever present as those two celestial bodies, even though they are sometimes hidden from one another’s sight. Your love will be the guiding force that charts the course of your tomorrows, holds your world together in difficult times, and will make life itself shine bolder and brighter than we human beings have a right to dream of.” The portly Maester said, finishing his words as he tied the knot between their clasped hands.  Daenerys hadn’t taken her eyes off Jon the whole time.  His eyes had widened in surprise at the words she had chosen, but he had only smiled at her more broadly.  She had no faith in the Seven, nor the Red God, but the words of the Dothraki called to her heart, and she had found none better that conveyed the feeling she felt for her King.  She in turn was surprised when he squeezed her hand firmly, seeing the hint of tears pricking at his eyes as he smiled at her. 

 

“I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days,” Jon said, his words quiet.  Had the whole room not been silent, they might have missed the declaration.  He took a small step towards his Queen, reaching up with his free hand to caress her cheek gently.  Dany took a tiny step forward, leaning her cheek into his hand as she gazed into his eyes. 

 

“I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days,” she declared, resting her free hand on his chest as she moved closer.  Her heart raced as they stood so close, her violet eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips, then back to his eyes.  A smile crossed his face as he pulled her ever so closer, caressing her cheek with his thumb gently. 

 

 “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” He said, the words ringing through the throne room as he leaned down to capture her lips with his own.  She gasped into the kiss, pressing back against him as she wrapped her arm around him, pulling him closer to her.  It was quite the inconvenience for their hands to be tied in that moment, she simply wanted to pull him closer and kiss him more deeply.

 

The rush of her heart beating in her ears temporarily drowned out the cheers from the Lords and Ladies in the room.  Reluctantly, she broke away from her new husband, squeezing his hand gently.  They looked out over the room, starting to make their way hand in hand down the aisle towards the great hall for the wedding feast.  The guests cheered, tossing handfuls of flowers into the air, the soft white petals raining down on the newlyweds.  Dany reached up to brush petals from Jon’s hair, chuckling as they got stuck in his curls.  He returned the favor, pausing their retreat when they reached the main doors, leaning over to kiss her again quickly.  Daenerys smile against his lips, closing her eyes as she returned the kiss.

 

The crowd cheered and roared in their approval.  Long live the King and Queen.

 

 

 


	45. Moon of My Life

-  Jon  -

 

 

 

Jon sat as the banquet table rather overwhelmed.  As soon as they’d left the hall, they’d followed a pair of unsullied to a side room where they could have a moment of privacy.  They’d untied their bound hands, and he’d kissed her again.  He couldn’t stop looking at her, with petals in her hair and that warm smile on her face.  After the din of their guests making their way to the great hall for the feast faded, they left the room, still hand in hand though they were no longer bound. 

 

The room had erupted in cheers once more as they arrived.  He didn’t recognize most of the faces that smiled back at him, but he wasn’t paying them much attention now.  There were two chairs at the very center of the great table, left empty for the newlywed monarchs.  Jon led the way to their seats, pulling out Dany’s chair for her and gesturing for her to sit. She smiled up at him as she took her seat, taking his own place at her side. 

 

His plate had been filled with the finest of foods, his glass with the best wine, and his ears with good conversation.  Arya had been seated to his right, Gendry at her side.  His little sister had still refused to wear a dress to his wedding, but she had at least worn a nice tunic.  Her hair was drawn back at the sides with two braids that met behind her head, leaving most of her dark hair loose down her back.  She had dressed in a blue tunic with the stark direwolf stitched in black thread into the fabric, her outfit completed with black leather trousers and boots.  She wore Stormbreaker and Catspaw at her hip as per usual, having insisted on being there to defend her brother in the case of another assassination attempt.  She was not a usual Lady, and yet dignity and poise radiated from her as she leaned over to speak to her King.

 

They spoke of fighting and the bandits on the road and the assassin from the night before.  The man had died in the cells overnight, found the next morning in a pool of his blood.  Arya had given the blade to Sam, and he was currently studying it and comparing it to known poisons to try to learn its origin.  When it was found that the first attempt had failed, there would be more, Arya was sure of it. They’d increased the guards and tightened security as much as they could. It would be easier to keep track of unknown peoples when the capitol wasn’t filled with every Lord and Lady in the Six Kingdoms, plus their dozen servants each. 

 

As the night wore on, the decorum of a southern feast started to give way to the raucous type of celebration that was usually found in the north.  The flames roared in the fireplace, men and women danced to rhythmic music, and the King found himself drinking far more wine than he usually would.  It was his wedding; he could drink too much if he wanted to.  When the men from the north started to sing the songs of his home, he couldn’t help but start singing along, though he couldn’t quite keep on key. 

 

When the moon hung high in the sky and eyes began to droop, it was Daenerys who excused herself from the table first.  She’d made it very well known that there would be no bedding ceremony.  She would only wear this dress once, but she was very attached to it, and she would not have it torn by drunken lords as they tried to disrobe her.  She had handmaidens for that.  It had been a long day for them both, and he knew how long it took to undo the braids that decorated her head.  He finished his wine, standing and giving an exaggerated sweeping bow to his guests before he followed the path of his queen, ignoring the calls and wolf whistles that followed him down the hall.

 

They’d been sleeping in separate rooms since taking up residence in the capitol, but eventually they’d had the royal chambers redone.  He walked down the red stone halls somewhat unevenly, wishing he had his sword as his hip to help stabilize him.  He’d definitely had too much wine, he half felt like he was going to tip over.  He pushed open the door to their chambers, stepping into the dimly lit room, closing the door quietly behind him.  There were a handful of candles and lanterns scattered around the room, bathing it in a soft golden glow. 

 

He made his way through the solar to the bedchambers, sucking in a low breath when he saw her.  she sat on the bed with her back facing him, her silvery blonde hair tumbling loose around her shoulders and down her back. She had very carefully taken off her beautiful wedding gown and was left in only a thin underdress.  She’d heard his steps on the stone, turning to look at him over one bare shoulder.  Her violet eyes were dark, and half lidded as she gazed at him from across the room, and Jon could feel his mouth go dry as she spoke. 

 

“Husband…” The way she said the word sent a shiver down his spine.  She rose from the bed, walking around it to face him.  He could make out the curve of her breasts and hips through the thin fabric of her dress.  He’d avoided her bed since before the war for the dawn, and the length of those months was wearing on him in that moment.  She crossed the room to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulder as she looked up at him with those violet eyes.  It was his wedding day, and he’d had far too much wine to care about the reason why he’d been avoiding her for so long.  She was the most beautiful woman in the Six Kingdoms, perhaps the world, and she was his. 

 

“Wife…” he whispered to her, his hands finding the curve of her waist as they stood in the low light.  He pulled her closer to his chest, leaning down to kiss her deeply, a growl pulling from his lips as she curled her fingers into his hair.  He might be half dragon, but she brought out the wolf in him.  He nibbled on her bottom lip, begging for entrance to her mouth as he hands roamed along her sides and up her back.  She let out a soft groan into his kiss as she parted her lips, their tongues twining as she started to undo the clasps on his tunic.

 

Jon almost protested when she pulled away, but the annoyance died when she tugged his tunic over his head, discarding the fine fabric.  She ran her fingers over his chest, over the scars along his chest from where his brothers in black had ended his life.  Ever since he’d come back, the wounds had plagued him.  They healed, but so slowly.  It was only now that they had truly scarred over, though the lines were pink and fresh.  They were still tender to the touch, but he didn’t mind as long as it was her hands. 

 

He’d let out a groan when her hands had slid south on his body to undo the ties of his trousers, tugging at the laces as his wife peppered kisses along his chest.  His hands gripped her hips, and it was all he could do not to tear the thin slip she wore off her body.  He bowed his head to kiss along her neck, smiling against her skin when she gasped under his touch.  Her arms snaked around his neck once more, a high moan falling from her lips as he nibbled on her skin, her legs buckling ever so slightly. 

 

He took that opportunity to bend down, scooping her into his arms and carrying her back to the bed where she had been sitting only minutes before.  He sat her down on the feather bed, leaning over her as he pushed the shift up along her hips.  She pulled away from him to tug the thin dress off over her head, leaving her bare before him.  His dark gaze raked over her hungrily as he kicked off his boots and stripped off his trousers, crawling over her on the bed. 

 

She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing their bodies together. He held himself above her with one hand, sliding his hand down to her slit. He was surprised to find her quite wet already, though he loved the sight of her squirming beneath him as he rubbed circles on her clit with his thumb.  She raked her fingers through his hair, tugging it out of its tight bun so that it hung loose around his face.  She liked his curls loose at times, especially times like this.  She groaned, tugging on his hair as he lips descended on her neck again, leaving kisses and love bites on her skin. 

 

“Are you ready?” He asked her softly, nuzzling his nose against her skin as he rocked his hand against her sex.  She yanked on his hair, pulling him up to meet her violet gaze.  The look on her face and her words broke the control he had been working so hard to contain. 

 

“Don’t keep me waiting husband… I’ve waited long enough” She growled the words at him, fire in her eyes as she pulled him closer.  Their lips crashed together, hands fumbling as they pressed their bodies together.  Jon groaned into her lips as he sunk into her, his hands curling into the sheets next to her head.  He’d half forgotten the feel of her body on his, but now he longed to savor every inch of her. 

 

He broke the kiss, gripping the headboard with one hand as he started to thrust into her, using the sturdy bed as leverage.  Dany arched up to meet him, her hands gripping his arms as she panted and bucked to meet his thrusts. As they ground together, one of her hands slipped back between her legs, stroking at her clit as they collided over and over. 

 

Dany could feel that pressure building in her body, that breathless feeling starting to collect in her chest.  When Jon leaned down and bit on a tender spot on her neck, she couldn’t help the release that tore through her body.  She cried out, one arm wrapping around him as she held him close, her body twitching under his. She clenched around him, the continued pleasure of his thrusts extending her release.  Her eyes were open, but she didn’t see the canopy above the bed, she was too lost to the pleasure. 

 

Jon continued for as long as he could, but her moans and the overwhelming feeling of her squeezing around him sent him tumbling over the edge.  He groaned her name against her skin as he spent himself inside her.  After a few final twitches of his hips, he stilled in her.  Her legs were still wrapped around his waist, and she didn’t make to let him pull away.  She pulled her hand away from the apex of her thighs, wrapping her other arm around his shoulders as they panted in the afterglow of their lovemaking. 

 

After a long moment, she uncurled his legs from around his waist, her hands roaming along his back gently, though not enough to keep him there with her anymore.  He rolled off to the side, lying flat on his back, looking up at the canopy above them.  He turned his head, looking over at the blonde who laid beside him, just as equally out of breath as he was.  He reached out to her, pulling her closer to him.  She curled into his side happily, draping her arm across his chest as she leaned up to kiss him again. 

 

It had been a long day, and the stress and wine and exertion of their lovemaking had taken its toll on the young King.  As Daenerys nuzzled her face against his shoulder, he could feel his eyes start to droop the longer he laid there.  He hadn’t realized that his new wife had been watching him as his eyes drifted slowly closer to closing, opening again when she pressed a gently kiss to his chest.  He looked down at her, smiling sheepishly as he reached up to caress her cheek gently.

 

“Sorry… It was a long day” he said, apologizing for immediately starting to doze after their lovemaking.  He knew ladies joked about how men wanted to sleep immediately after sex, the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint his wife on their wedding night.  Dany smiled up at him with half closed violet eyes, her hand rubbing gentle circles on his chest as she lounged against his side. 

 

“Then rest, my King.  I’m finding myself rather tired as well,” She said, a yawn forcing its way from her lips, as if on cue.  She chuckled softly, sitting up from his embrace to pull the blankets out from under her new husband.  She dragged them down, then back up over him before she slid under herself and settled herself back against his side.  He leaned down to kiss her gently, turning slightly so he could hold her against his chest.  He had trouble sleeping many nights, his dreams filled with wights and battle and war.  When the warmth of her was pressed against his chest, those dreams didn’t plague him.

 

He rested his nose against the top of her head, nuzzling it into her silky hair.  He could already feel sleep pulling him under, but as consciousness started to slip away from him, he managed to find two words he’d neglected to say to her for several hours.

 

“Love you…” he murmured against her forehead as he slipped into sleep, his dark eyes closing as the darkness claimed him.  Dany smiled a little to herself, closing her violet eyes and nuzzling in closer to his chest, warm in the arms of her wolf.  He might technically be a dragon, but he’d always been a wolf, and she’d loved that wild, untamable thing about him. 

 

“Love you too…” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his bare chest.  The candles burned out as the young rulers slipped into sleep.  Their dreams were easy, not troubled as they had been these past months.  There was comfort in each other’s arms.  Nightmares had no place in their bed that night.

 

 

 


	46. Long May They Reign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Coronations have always been grand affairs. Gendry had never been comfortable at grand affairs.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

Gendry felt that the coronation was a boring affair.  Many of the Lords and Ladies had whispered and speculated about the King and the Queen after they’d left the hall during their wedding feast.  They all knew what happened behind closed doors the first night a couple was wed.  No one was surprised when the King and Queen arrived at breakfast together, both looking slightly hungover.  Those who’d stayed afterwards were nursing hangovers themselves, the new Lord of Storms End included.  Even Arya had scowled at her breakfast, plagued with a headache from the wine the night before.  The wedding had been fun and merriment and joy.  The coronation was reverent.  Beautiful, but severe. 

 

Just a week after the wedding, the throne room had filled once again, though a great curtain had been strung across the room, obscuring the end of the hall from onlookers.  The crowd wouldn’t stop muttering, and the noise was driving the blacksmith mad.  They nattered on about the King and Queen, about the curtain, about anything and everything.  Arya sat beside him in the front row, dressed in a dark tunic with her hair pulled back into a braid.  For once, she was unarmed.  Daenerys had doubled the guard since the assassination attempt before the wedding, and Jon had insisted that it wasn’t necessary for her to wear weapons to the coronation.  She sat stiff at his side, and he watched her gray eyes survey the room.

 

He was spared the torment of waiting as a hush fell over the throne room, the mass of Lords and Ladies rising from their seats.  He felt Arya’s fingers curl through his as they stood, glancing to his side to study the she-wolf as they waited.  The look on her face was hard to place, a mixture of concern and happiness and unease found there.  Many things could go wrong on a day like this, and she wasn’t armed for the first time in many months.

 

Unlike the white of her wedding dress, Daenerys looked every bit a dragon in her black and red gown.  For so long she’d taken to wearing short dresses that let her ride and move freely, but for these ceremonies, she’d allowed for some opulence.  Finely stitched dragons adorned her gown, the heads of two of them resting on each of her shoulders, one green, one gold.  The great black and red dragon curled around her waist, Drogon’s head stitched into the fabric across her chest.  Jewels and bits of dragonglass had been worked into the design, the dragons shimmering in the light as though they lived and breathed on the fabric.  Stitches like scales ripped down the bodice of her dress towards the skirts, the fabric of the dress fading from black on top to deep red in her flowing skirts.  Her hair was twisted up into several braids, but not quite as complicated as they had been for her wedding day. 

 

Jon was dressed very similarly to how he had been for the wedding; however, his tunic was more ornate.  This time, there were no Stark direwolves on his shoulders, his design much mimicked hers.  Two dragons stared on from their places on his shoulders, one golden, one black and red.  The green dragon was proudly displaced in the center of his back, the stitched golden eyes seeming to look around the room from within the fabric.  His hair was pulled up like Ned Stark’s had always been, and the somber look on his face could have easily been mirrored from his father’s face as well.  He’d been wearing the weight of the crown for a few months, now it was time to face it for real.

 

The couple walked side by side, their footsteps in sync as they walked down the throne room in silence.  They stopped at the steps to the throne, Jon giving a nod to one of the Unsullied standing to the side.  From each side, the curtain that had been drawn across the throne room was pulled back, and soft gasps could be heard throughout the hall.  The Iron Throne that had been so present and formidable, that had intimidated and struck fear into the hearts of so many, was gone.  The Iron Throne was built to make men and women feel small, to make them feel weak as they looked up to their ruler.  Those were not the feelings that Jon and Daenerys Targaryen wanted from their subjects.

 

In place of the Iron Throne stood two seats now.  They were finely carved and decorated, images of dragons and wolves worked into the wood they were made from.  The seats were cushioned, unlike the cold seat of the Iron Throne.  The two thrones were identical, sitting side by side where the Iron Throne had stood.  They couldn’t rule together from one throne.  Even though Daenerys had tried so hard to reach the throne of her forefathers, it was no longer what this country needed.  They didn’t need rulers who stared down from a throne of swords to intimidate the smallfolk.  The wheel was breaking, things were changing, and the need to terrify their subjects into obedience was one of them.

 

They climbed the steps in unison, each standing before a throne.  Dany stood to the left, Jon to the right, their faces calm and collected as they looked out across their subjects.  Samwell Tarly came forward, dressed in the Arch Maester’s robes, looking at the two monarchs.  The two crown-bearers approached from either side, the new crowns resting on cushions.  Samwell lifted the first crown from its pillow, the finely wrought silver dragons glinting in the light.  Much like her gown, the stones that centered on the dragons eyes were green, golden, and blood red.  Two of her children were gone, but she would honor them always.  The Arch Maester cleared his throat, turning to Daenerys as he spoke the words.

 

“I now proclaim Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the First Men, Lady of the Six Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.” He said, reaching up to place the crown among her braids.  It rested on her head perfectly, the weight of it barely noticeable on her shoulders, though the responsibility weighed far more. 

 

Next, the portly Maester turned towards his friend, a smile crossing his face as he met the eyes of his King.  Jon had never craved power, yet it found its way to him now.  Sam lifted the other crown from its pillow, not quite so gently this time. The silver of the Kings crown was darker, a wolfs head with ruby eyes centered on the crown, flanked by dragons that wound their tails around the band of the crown. 

 

“I now proclaim King Jon Aegon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.” He said, reaching up to place the crown on his friend’s head.  It was never what Jon had wanted, but it had always been his destiny.  He was born to rule, as was she. 

 

“Long may they reign” Samwell called out, the words echoing through the great hall. 

 

“ _Long may they reign_ ” the words run through the hall, spoken by every man and woman who stood before their newly crowned King and Queen.  The two monarchs looked at each other briefly, Jon reaching out his hand to Daenerys, his Queen returning the gesture and taking his hand.  The pair sat on their new thrones, side by side as equals.  The bells rung throughout the city, joyous cheers ringing through the streets.  Their reign had begun.

 

The stream of well-wishers and congratulators occupied the King and Queen once the ceremony had finished.  There were still many Lords and Ladies they needed to attend to, make deals and alliances with.  They aimed to listen to their grievances, large and small, and help in any way they could.  Even before the crowns had rested on their brows, the common folk had taken to calling them Good King Jon and Kind Queen Daenerys.  It had been many years since Westeros was ruled by those who held the love of the people.  A just man and an honorable woman.

 

Gendry wasn’t surprised when Arya’s hand squeezed his own and she started to tug him slowly along the edge of the room towards the exit. There were so many for the King and Queen to greet, surely they wouldn’t begrudge the Lord and future Lady of Storms End ducking out early. She led him through the crowds, down the winding halls and past the sea of people to his favorite place in the castle, the forge. 

 

There was no fire built in the forge today, no men working the steel.  It was quiet and cool, much unlike the din from the crowd outside. Arya released his hand, moving to hop up on one of the workbenches as she had so often done in the forge at Winterfell.  A few strands of hair fell lose from her braid, and Gendry couldn’t help but reach up to tuck them gently behind her ear. 

 

“You look beautiful, you know…” He said quietly, gaze raking over his she-wolf appreciatively.  The tunic she wore hugged her lithe frame, but still revealed her femininity, unlike the leather tunic she so often wore when training.  Those clothes were designed for fighting, these were designed to flatter.  He smiled at the blush that spread across her face, the light swat to his shoulder to be expected by now. 

 

“Stupid bull…” She grumbled at him, a smile curling across her face as she leaned in to kiss him from her perch on the bench.  He furrowed his brow, pulling back slightly as he looked up at her. 

 

“Hey, I’m supposed to be a stag now” he complained, drawing a chuckle from her lips.  She reached up, caressing along his cheeks gently, running her fingers back and up into his black hair, a smirk settling over her lips as she looked at him. 

 

“You’ll always be a bull-headed blacksmith to me,” she said tenderly, curling her fingers into his hair as she pulled him closer, pressing a deep kiss to his lips. He couldn’t help but groan when she tugged on his hair and demanded entrance to his mouth with her tongue. She took that noise as an opportunity, deepening the kiss and drawing him in closer.  His hands found her waist, pulling her body flush against his, her legs curling around his hips.  He pulled back when he was out of breath and aching for her, leaning his forehead against hers.  If it wouldn’t cause such a scandal to be caught, he would have taken her here in the forge like their first night together before the Battle for the Dawn. 

 

“So, when do we leave for Winterfell?” He asked, managing to pull himself from her grasp, taking a few steps back to put some space between them.  He saw the mischievous glint in her eyes as she smiled at him from her seat on the workbench.  Her cheeks were flushed, lips tinged pink from their kissing, but she’d won their game of desire when he’d had to step back.  He looked forward to revisiting this game later in their chambers. 

 

“Jon said a fortnight… They need to spend at least a week as crowned rulers before they go running off to the North for a few months.” She said, shrugging slightly, though he could see the smile work its way onto her face.  She loved the north.  She had fought so hard and tried for so long to make it back to her childhood home, and she was anxious to return.  She missed the snows and the great walls and the Godswood.  She needed to go home one last time before ‘home’ started to mean somewhere else. 

 

“Never thought I’d find myself missing somewhere that cold, but I’m glad to go back” He grumbled, looking around the forge.  Jon had it built especially for him, but he couldn’t ever stay here. This place was filled with too many painful memories for him to ever find happiness here.  He’d only spent a short time at Winterfell, but those days had been some of the happiest he’d had in years, even when he thought he was facing off against his death.  He looked back at her when he heard a soft sigh fall from her lips

 

“Me too…” The look on her face was wistful as she thought about her childhood home.  It would be harder to travel back north once they arrived in Storms End.  The journey was five weeks by horse, and she had a feeling there would be quite a lot to attend to when they arrived.  She wanted to make the most of it while she was there.  She knew it would be a long time before she made it back again. 

 

“So, after Winterfell…” he asked cautiously.  He knew what they’d agreed to, but he wasn’t sure if the weight of it had started to weigh on her yet.  It had already started to weigh on him.  He’d started to worry about what his liege lords would think of him.  Would they mind his Fleabottom accent? Would they laugh when they learned he couldn’t read?  Would they scorn the wild wolf he was bringing home with him? 

 

“We ride for Storms End… They’ve been waiting very patiently for their Lord, but they’ll have to wait a little while longer.” She said, sliding off the bench and taking a couple of steps towards him.  He looked down, biting at his lip a little, fiddling with the cuff of his tunic.  What if he couldn’t do it?  What if he made a complete mess of things? What if they _hated_ him?  As the reality of being Lord of Storms End sunk in, he’d been the one feeling caged.  Part of him wanted to give it all back, to run away into the wilderness with Arya, just the two of them and Nymeria.  To go back to being no one that anyone expected anything of. 

 

“I don’t mind keeping them waiting…” He said quietly, scowling down at his boots.  Arya stepped close to him, reaching out to thread her fingers through his gently. 

 

“Nervous?” She understood his feelings.  They were charging headfirst into uncharted territory for them both.  He knew nothing about being a Lord, and she knew just enough about being a Lady to make a right mess of it.  So much had happened in such a short time, wars had been won, cities had burned and been rebuilt, and a bastard boy with nothing in the world had been made the Lord of a holdfast.  It was a lot to handle all at once, never mind them finding each other after so many years apart. 

 

“Yes…” he confessed, looking up at her to meet her gray eyes.  She let go of his hand, stepping forward to loop her arms around his neck gently, threading her fingers into his dark hair, raking her nails across his scalp gently.  She’d taken to running her fingers through his hair ever since he’d let it grow back out, and he would readily admit that it had become one of his favorite feelings.  He closed his eyes halfway, only meeting her eyes again when she pulled one hand from his dark hair to pinch his chin playfully between her fingers. 

 

“Don’t worry… Davos will be there to make sure you don’t offend anyone, and I’ll be there to make sure you do” She teased, smiling up at him.  He sighed, a smile working its way across his face as he looked down at her. It wouldn’t be easy, maybe it would even be a disaster, but as long as she was there with him, what did it matter?  

 

“Of course, what would I do without you?” He said, chuckling as she leaned up to kiss him.  He curled his arms around her waist, holding her close against his chest, pulling back from the kiss when he needed to breathe again. She was always stealing his breath away with her kisses, he’d need to figure out how to get her back for that someday. 

 

“I don’t know, probably live a boring and simple life as a pampered lord” she teased, kissing him again.  He chuckled against her lips; hands curled around her waist as they stood there in the quiet of the forge.  His life had changed so much since her Lord father had walked into his shop all those years ago.  It had been a long and hard road, but he wouldn’t take back a single second if it meant he had to go without his wild she-wolf at his side. 

 

“Sounds terrible” he muttered, smiling into the kiss.  Life with her would never be boring or simple. The liege lords of Storms End had no idea what was in store for them.    

 

 

 


	47. Wolf Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> They're late leaving King's Landing, and Arya is getting anxious.

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Sansa had left for Winterfell two days after the coronation.  There was much to be done in the north.  She had her own throne to assume, a royal visit to accommodate, and a wedding to prepare for.  The redhead had somehow managed to worm her sister’s measurements from the seamstress who had been making her tunics in King’s Landing and had sent them off to her own seamstress in the north.  No sister of hers would be getting married in a dirty leather tunic, though Sansa was sure Arya would try. 

 

The time between Sansa’s departure and her own was chewing at the she-wolf.  Arya wanted to mount her horse and take off galloping towards the north, but if she rode too fast, she knew her sister wouldn’t have time to prepare.  Originally it had been a fortnight, but the days had stretched on and delays had pushed their departure out another week.

 

On the end of the third week, Arya took it upon herself to track down the busy new King, cornering him in the hallway one evening.  She’d stayed close to the shadows, her back pressed against the wall.  She listened to the sound of his footsteps, waiting until he was about to turn the corner and see her when she jumped from the shadows, pinning his shoulders to the stone wall as she pressed the dull edge of Catspaw up against her brother’s throat.  Instantly his hand had flown to his hip where his sword would normally be, but Kings had no need to prowl their castle armed.  Only former assassins needed to stay armed. 

 

“You still need better guards, _Your Majesty_ ” She teased, smirking up at him as the shock faded from his face, replaced by a mixture of annoyance and fondness.  She pulled the blade away from his neck, twirling it in her fingers before she slid the Valyrian steel dagger back into its sheath.   

 

“I don’t think a thousand guards could deter you from a target anymore, little sister” He teased, though his words had a ring of truth to them.  He rubbed across the place on his neck where the cool steel had pressed.  She hadn’t even used the sharp edge of the blade, but he could still feel it lingering there. 

 

“So, why do I have the pleasure of you threatening me in the shadows?” He teased, smiling at his little sister, though the brunette didn’t return his smile.

 

“We’re a week late leaving for Winterfell” Not a question, just a fact.  He’d promised her a fortnight, and she’d given him an extra week.  She didn’t want to ride north without him, but it seemed like that day might come if he kept delaying their departure. Jon sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, looking back at the young woman who stood before him. 

 

“…I know, things are so busy here…” he offered, though he knew the words sounded pathetic.  He’d been wrapped up in dealing with the problems of his people, the days and nights had slipped by so quickly.  He’d barely even realized that they were a week late departing, and it wasn’t like Arya to be so patient.  Clearly, she’d been trying to give him some time, but that impatience had won out in the end, and she’d brought it to his attention.  He should have made a better effort to remember, but he had to remember so much these days.  He’d started to have a Maester sit with them during audiences to take notes and names so they could look back on issues later.  The list was growing rather long.  She brought him back to reality when her hand reached out to grasp his own, squeezing his hand.

 

“I was at your wedding, now I need you at mine,” she said, giving her brother a pleading look.  She never begged, that would be admitting weakness.  She couldn’t beg him with her words, but she could beg him with her eyes.  The King sighed and looked away from her gaze.  She’d perfected that look a little too well, though he knew she was sincere. 

 

“I know…” he said softly, squeezing her hand in return, letting out another sigh. 

 

“Anyway, its not as though I have anyone else to give me away in the Godswood.”  Jon’s head snapped up at those words, dark brown eyes meeting gray once more.  Gods, how she tormented him sometimes.  She knew just the right words to tug at his heart and make him cave.  _It should have been father._ The thought came to him unbidden, of their father standing in the Godswood, giving his wildest daughter to the blacksmith.  Lord Eddard Stark had despised politics.  Jon liked to imagine that he would have been pleased with his youngest daughters’ choice, to marry for love instead of power. 

 

“We’ll leave in two days” The Kings words were raspy as he met the gaze of his little sister.  Their father was gone, but he remained.  He would stand at her side in the Godswood and do what their father could not.  Arya smiled up at him slightly, giving his hand one final squeeze before releasing it. 

 

“Thank you, brother” She said, smiling at him fondly as they started to walk down the hall. 

 

“Next time you need an audience, why don’t you just come speak to me?” Jon asked, raising a brow at his strange and wild little sister.  It had never been her way to simply come out and do what was most reasonable, she always had to do things in her own way.  Arya looked over at him and shrugged slightly, bumping her shoulder against his playfully. 

 

“Its more fun this way” she teased, the King letting out a chuckle as he walked side by side with her down the hall.  He still had matters to deal with, and now needed to orchestrate a ride north in two days.  He’d certainly made quite the task for himself.  They parted ways at the doors to the throne room, the young King making his way back through the empty throne room to the council chambers.  Arya turned to the training yard, spending her last hours of daylight practicing before returning to the comfort of her blacksmith.  

 

She had no preparations to make for leaving.  She’d had her things packed for more than a week, simply rotating in clean clothes as she needed to.  Now she just had to find a way to occupy two days.  Perhaps to her benefit, it rained for the next two days.  The smallfolk stayed in their homes for now, and Jon was able to prepare for their departure instead of answering their problems.  Arya had no trouble finding a way to pass the time with her blacksmith, watching him in the forge or talking with him in their chambers.  The touch of his hands on her skin and the press of his lips to hers helped distract her from the waiting.

 

True to his word, the King and Queen were ready to leave within two days.  Tyrion had explicit instructions on how he was supposed to conduct the kingdom while they were in Winterfell.  They were not to be gone for more than three months, and any issues would need to be sent to them by Raven.  It was not the most efficient way to run a Kingdom, but when the monarchs were away, it was the only way to get a true answer.  Luckily the rain had cleared on the morning they began their journey north.

 

They rode in a small caravan with guards and carts for supplies.  Despite her years among the Dothraki, Daenerys had very little love of travel and tents.  She’d spent far too much time in tents as it was and had asked that they stay at an Inn whenever possible.  Dany had said a tearful farewell to Drogon, though she would return soon, she would miss him.  She’d reminded him to be good while she was gone, to only hunt across the sea and to never eat humans.  She hoped he listened.

 

Arya led their caravan, her chestnut gelding just as excited as she was to be on the road again.  She’d set aside her tailored tunics for her traveling leathers, though she’d taken to letting her hair go mostly loose, just kept out of her face by two thin braids that met behind her head.  It was nothing ornate like Daenerys’s hair, she simply twisted them herself in front of the mirror and used it to keep the front of her hair out of her eyes.  Arya had found that Gendry had taken to running his fingers through her hair when it was looser like this, and she’d found that she greatly enjoyed that.  The way he toyed with the strands and called her beautiful made her heart turn flips, even if she had to punch him for it afterwards. 

 

Gendry kept pace beside the she-wolf on his gray gelding, Nymeria circling around them in loops, sometimes falling back to walk beside Jon and Ghost, sometimes leading the procession even before Arya.  They rode long and hard the first day, stopping to set up their tents and make camp for the night.  Arya stretched her legs when she dismounted.  She was a bit saddle sore, though not nearly as bad as Gendry.  It had been a few weeks since he’d ridden, and the way he walked bow legged told volumes. 

 

Daenerys was looking worse for wear as well, sitting quietly on a chair that had been brought for her.  She started to look better after they all ate supper, a hearty soup that warmed their stomachs and helped start to pull in the desire for sleep.  They’d be up at dawn the next day, and then it was more riding.  They’d ride from dawn until afternoon until they reached the North.  If the snows on the Kings Road weren’t too thick, they’d make it to Winterfell in a month.  If the snows were very thick, perhaps a month and a week. 

 

Gendry let out a groan as he sunk down by the fire in the fading light, stretching out his aching legs as the large brown and white direwolf settled down against his back, providing support as he leaned into her fur.  His legs ached, and he was glad for the warmth of the fire to sooth his muscles.  Arya wasn’t ready to sit down yet though. They’d spent all day in the saddle, and she wanted to move her legs and use her feet, not keep sitting.  There would be plenty of sitting in the coming weeks.

 

Her fingers curled over the wolfs head pommel of her sword, her gaze resting on Longclaw, the sword hanging at her brothers’ side.  She’d not had the chance to use Stormbreaker during the battle of Kings Landing, there had been no time to fight, only to run.  Now she was feeling restless, and the only one left to spar with was her brother.  She drew her blade from its sheath, admiring the flicker of the flames reflected in the polished steel.  Jon looked up from where he was cleaning his dagger, catching the glint in his sister’s eye.  For all the times he had watched her train and spar with others, he’d never faced her in the training yard.

 

“Spar with me?” A smile curled across the King’s face as he looked up at his little sister.  He raised a dark brow at her, standing from the long he’d been sitting on. 

 

“You think you can handle it?” he teased, smirking to himself as Arya scowled at him, though there was playful intent in her eyes.  He knew full well she was capable of sparring with him, she’d killed the Night King after all. 

 

“Don’t hold back” She ordered, twirling Stormbreaker in her hand, taking a few paces away from the fire so their steps wouldn’t infringe on Gendry and the Queen.  Jon smiled, pulling Longclaw from its sheath, the Valyrian steel glinting in the firelight. 

 

“I’ll try not to” he taunted, hefting his sword as he faced off against his sister in the darkness.  The two Starks didn’t notice the watchful gaze of their partners as they squared off.  Daenerys looked on with a hint of concern for her King.  She’d seen him fight before, but she’d also seen the Stark girl, and she was a force to be reckoned with.  Gendry watched on with a smile on his face.  Jon was used to fighting big men who moved slow and made long powerful strokes.  He was used to fighting Gendry, a big smith with a big hammer.  The speedy she-wolf with the thin blade would dance circles around him. 

 

Arya stood completely still, Stormbreaker poised behind her back, watching her brother closely as she waited for him to move.  Jon’s eyes narrowed and he took two steps forward, swinging his blade down towards her.  She watched the movements of his feet, slipping to the side as his sword came down where she had been standing just seconds before.  She spun around him, letting the tip of her blade tap across his as she moved, falling back into a catlike stance as she watched him. 

 

The King spun around, narrowing his dark eyes at his little sister.  His next swing came harder than the first, the blade whistling through the air where Arya had stood, the younger Stark dancing around her brother once more.  He scowled.  She grinned.  She was playing with him again.  That grin on her face was enough to rile the King, and he charged without hesitation this time, the sound of steel meeting starting to ring over their camp as Arya struck back.  She’d seen the shift in her brothers eyes, the touch of anger building there at her taunting moves.  She wanted him to get angry.  When people got angry, they made mistakes.

 

His swings were broad and powerful, hers were quick and slicing.  He couldn’t keep up as she danced around him, keeping him turning and on the defensive as she lunged and parried in time with him.  Occasionally they broke apart, standing still as they stared at each other, catching their breath for a second before resuming their mock battle.  Arya held nothing back, stepping around her brother quickly, grabbing onto the collar of his tunic with one hand, twisting her body so she almost stood as his side.  She reached out, smacking the flat of her blade across the back of his hand, the sting causing him to drop his sword in shock.  She released his collar, wrapping one arm around his neck from behind as she pressed her blade up under his chin. 

 

The King froze, throwing up his hands as they stood panting in the light of the fire. The cold winter air nipped at their cheeks, but it did nothing to wipe the smiles from their faces.  Arya released her hold on her big brother, sheathing her blade and extending her arm to him as she would any opponent after a good sparring match.  He raised a brow, but grasped her arm and shook it once, nodding his head to her.  He thought with as much training as he had done with the blacksmith, he would have been able to handle his sister.  He’d underestimated her speed.  In the time it took him to swing Longclaw once, she could swing Stormbreaker thrice.  How could he land a blow when she shifted and flitted about like a leaf on the wind? 

 

“I’m out of practice…” he declared, sinking down on the long near the firepit.  Arya sunk down beside him, leaning their shoulders together.  It had been a good fight, and there had been a couple times when he’d almost got her, or nearly unseated Stormbreaker from her grasp.  Had he managed to free her of her weapon, the fight would have gone very differently. 

 

“Its all that Kinging you’ve been doing… too much time sitting on a throne.” She teased, smiling at him as they caught their breath by the fire.  Gendry shook his head slightly as he looked at the pair of Starks.  He’d only met Lord Eddard once, but those two looked the most like him.  He’d seen the look of the Hand somewhat in the youngest Stark, but Jon and Arya had the blood of the wolf in them.  Even if Jon wasn’t really Lord Stark’s son, he still had the look. Arya smiled at her brother fondly, letting out a sigh as she looked into the flames, sitting at his side as their breath slowly returned to normal. 

 

“Can we spar again tomorrow?” She raised a brow at her brother’s question, a broad grin settling over her face as she smiled at her King.  They’d never taken the time to spar before.  Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to meet the warrior side of her just yet, but he seemed to embrace it now.  She could match him in blade, in words, and in wits.  His little sister had grown.  Arya chuckled to herself, bumping her shoulder against Jon’s playfully before she answered his question.

 

“Of course.  Perhaps you’ll even beat me next time”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated: I know Jon and Arya aren't technically brother and sister, but I keep referring to them as such since thats the way they care for each other, and always will. The characters dont think of each other any differently than before.


	48. On the Road Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Gendry doesn't mind traveling on the King's Road when they're heading north. well... doesn't mind as much.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

Gendry still didn’t like riding.  The way his legs ached after a day in the saddle, even when he’d done no walking, was just uncomfortable.  He’d gone miles and his legs felt it, but in all the wrong places.  It should be his calves burning after a long march, not his thighs from gripping a horse’s sides all day.  He always felt a little bit wobbly after a long day’s ride, but the nights lounging by a warm fire did wonders to ease his aching muscles.  Arya and Jon sat a horse as though they were born to it.  They rode with ease and grace, and still had the strength to spar every evening. 

 

It had started with the first night, and after that the caravan had fallen into an easy routine.  They woke every morning at dawn, which Arya enjoyed more than anyone else in the camp.  She always climbed from their cot eagerly, building a small fire for breakfast as the Unsullied and Northmen rubbed sleep from their eyes and started to break down the camp.  Gendry wasn’t used to not having to help out, surprised when the Northmen didn’t allow him to break down his own tent.  They’d insisted.  Ever since the news of his Lordship had made it to the Northmen, they’d warmed to him immensely.  They’d liked him as a blacksmith, though they weren’t sure he’d deserved to marry their princess before.  Now he was a Lord, and even a southern one could be worthy of a Stark. 

 

He still couldn’t get over being called ‘Milord’ by smallfolk and servants.  He’d been a bastard for so long, he still didn’t respond quickly when someone called for Lord Baratheon.  The first time he’d been called that in the halls of the Red Keep, he’d almost turned to check and see if Lord Stannis was standing behind him. Arya hadn’t let up on her teasing of him either.  At first it had been mocking and playful, a jibe at his newfound wealth and power.  Then she’d twisted it, wrapping it up with the fire in her eyes.  He’d nearly dropped his fork one night during supper when she’d leaned over and purred the word into his ear.

 

_“I’m tired… will you come to bed soon **milord**?” _

 

He’d never thought a title, even a teasing one such as that, could start that fire in his blood that burned for her.  He hadn’t finished his supper that night.  Still, the young Lord of Storms End certainly didn’t feel like a Lord yet.  Sure, he had finer clothes, but it all felt like an act.  As though someone would jump out from the shadows to proclaim that it had been a joke all along, and then things would go back to normal. 

 

Jon had looked surprised to see Arya sitting cross legged before a small fire, cooking bacon over the flames that first morning.  He’d never known his little sister to cook anything.  She’d explicitly avoided any task a woman was _supposed_ to do, up until now.  The King definitely didn’t miss the way Nymeria laid down next to her girl, golden eyes begging for the roasting meat.  There had been so many years that the she-wolves had been apart, and it warmed Jon’s heart to see Arya spoiling her direwolf now. 

 

So, Arya cooked breakfast in the mornings, then they’d douse the fire, mount their horses, and it was another long day’s ride.  On the third evening they made camp, Gendry had spent some time tromping around in the forest in the fading light.  He’d returned back to the fire with his prize, a long, straight stick, thin on one end, thick on the other, perfect for carving a walking staff.  Arya and Jon had already begun sparring when he’d returned to the camp to position him self by the fire so he could see.  The smith’s return had caught Jon’s attention, and the glint of his knife in the firelight distracted him. 

 

The King let out a yelp as Arya smacked the back of his hand quite hard with the pommel of her sword, his swing having faltered when he’d been distracted by the blacksmith.  Longclaw fell into the grass, and Arya almost immediately dropped Stormbreaker, reaching out to grasp at Jon’s hand in concern.  Daenerys couldn’t help a small chuckle that escaped her lips as Jon pouted at his little sister and she fussed over his bruised knuckles.  She could hear the younger Stark girl quietly apologizing for striking him so hard, but it only took a couple minutes for the King to recover, and their sparring continued. 

 

Gendry hadn’t even realized he was the cause of their sparring foul, already starting to run his blade along the wood, curling the bark off in long shavings.  He often saw wolves in wood, which made it easy to carve faces like Nymeria and Ghost.  They came with ease in most wood, but this piece didn’t feel quite like a wolf.  He examined the stick, a small smile curling across his lips as he found what he was looking for. 

 

Near the top, he shaved off large chunks, rounding it off and whittling away the middle to form a strange curved ‘y’ shape. Lower down, he started to cut into the wood, the rough shapes of a head and ears starting to take form.  The snout of the creature was rounded and soft, not the fanged snarl of a wolf.  As he carved under the chin, he could see it clearer now.  The high cheekbones, curved ears, and muzzle were all soft.  The antlers that had begun to take shape near the top were anything but.  It would take some time to coax the stag from the wood, but it was a good start. 

 

Jon sat down beside the smith after some time, pink cheeked and out of breath from training with Arya.  Gendry could feel the King’s gaze raking over his work, that hint of nervousness coming over him again. 

 

“I didn’t know you could carve…” Jon said, his eyes studying the figure, narrowing his eyes as he tried to see the animal that was coming to shape in the wood.

 

“I learned carving pommels for swords” Gendry replied, digging his knife into the wood, starting to carve away the eyes.  Jon nodded, glancing over to the side where Arya was cleaning Stormbreaker dutifully.  He’d admired the wolf’s head pommel before, but he hadn’t realized Gendry had carved that himself.  Most smiths send that part of the work off to another artisan, they didn’t have time for the decorations.  Perhaps that’s what made Arya’s blade stand out from the rest.  The blacksmith had put his touch into every single inch of the weapon, and it showed in the quality.  The King looked back to the carving, frowning for a moment before a grin broke out over his face. 

 

“A stag?” He teased, chuckling at the young Lord. Gendry flushed a bit, chuckling slightly as he looked to the staff in his hands.  He was a reluctant Lord, but he’d slowly started to embrace his new title.  He’d even allowed the seamstress to stitch small stags on some of his clothes, though he’d refused the gaudy yellow of his house in favor of grays and blacks, much like the colors of House Stark.  He liked those colors better anyway.

 

“Haven’t carved one before, good time to start” He said, smiling up at his friend before turning his focus back to the carving.  He’d stopped when his fingers started to ache, setting the staff aside.  He’d strap it to his pack in the morning and bring it with him.  They had plenty of time for him to work on it in the evenings.  He could spend hours on the details. 

 

Their routine was broken on the sixth day when their company arrived at the Inn at the Crossroads.  Daenerys was especially pleased to finally have reached a proper Inn.  She’d quickly grown tired of sleeping on cots, not enjoying riding as much as she used too.  She missed Drogon especially.  Nothing compared to flight with him.  Silence had fallen through the Inn when one of the Unsullied had pushed open the door and they had walked in.  Daenerys didn’t need to wear a crown for everyone to know when the Queen entered the room.  The Innkeeper almost dropped the pitcher of ale he was carrying as their company filled into the room, Arya and Gendry stepping off to the side.

 

The silence was broken finally with a shout, and Gendry was almost bowled over when the portly cook barreled into his side.

 

“ _Gendry! Arry!_ ” Gendry couldn’t help but laugh when Hot Pie hugged him tightly, releasing his grip on the smith to pull the youngest Stark into a tight hug.  Jon furrowed his brow, looking at his sister with confusion in his eyes as she was squished by the large young man.  No one ever touched Arya without permission, but she returned the hug, patting the large man on the back.

 

“Hey, Hot Pie.  Do you think you could let me go? You’re crushing me” She said, her voice a little breathy.  He really was holding her quite tightly.  He released his embrace on her, worry crossing his face as he looked over her. 

 

“Oh, sorry Arry” He said, giving his friends a big smile.  He glanced to his right, his eyes going wide as he realized who they had arrived with.  Tales of King Jon and Queen Daenerys had been all over the Inn since the battle for King’s Landing.  The stories from the south came trickling northward, tales of their kindness and willingness to help their people.  The cook had almost forgotten that it was the same King Jon who’d been King in the north some months ago. 

 

“Oh, Your Grace…es… I didn’t see you there.  Welcome” He said bowing low to the King and Queen.  His bow would have been comical, had it not been for the sincerity on his face.  There wasn’t a malicious bone in that man’s body.  He was just glad to see Arry’s favorite brother alive and well and King.  Jon smiled at the young man, nodding as he reached into his belt for a small purse of coins.

 

“Thank you.  We were hoping to rent two rooms for the night” Jon said, glancing from the cook to the frozen figure of the Innkeeper’s wife.  She seemed to snap back to reality when her eyes met the King’s, and she stepped towards him nervously, starting to smooth her skirts.  She almost hesitated to reach out and take the bag of coins the King was offering her.  Her eyes went wide as she peeked inside. The woman had never seen so many golden dragons in her life.  There wouldn’t be any worry about paying for enough supplies to run the Inn, even if the winter lasted several years.  She looked back at the King with the beginnings of tears pricking at her eyes.  She tucked the bag of coins away in a pocket of her dress, curtsying to the royal couple. 

 

“Of… of course, your Majesties… Please, if you’d follow me” She said, finally finding her voice as she gestured to the stairs that led to the top of the Inn.  Their rooms weren’t extravagant, they mostly housed travelers who were just looking for a warm place to lay their head.  Not the standard fair for royalty, but it was the still the best room they had. Jon and Dany followed her up the stairs.  Daenerys seemed eager to get out of the eyes of so many people, and her back had been aching from all the riding they had been doing.  She’d been so used to flying on Drogon, but she never remembered riding making her this sore when she rode with Khal Drogo.    

 

Gendry turned his focus back to the cook after the Innkeepers wife led away the royal couple.  Movement had returned to the Inn, but now the room was full of chatter about the King and Queen who had just arrived.  The cook beamed at his childhood friends, taking a moment to look them over.  They’d both changed so much since he saw them last, even though it had only been a few months since he’d seen Arya.  She’d warmed since the last time she rode through this place. She smiled more.

 

“How did you two find each other again?  Last time I saw you, Arry, you were headed to Kings Landing.” Hot Pie asked, putting his hands on his hips as he looked them over.  He’d never known what had become of the blacksmith since he’d stayed behind at the Inn.  It was especially good to see Gendry again.  The sentiment was definitely returned.  Gendry had always liked Hot Pie, they’d spent so much time together in the Riverlands, and it had been bittersweet when he’d stayed behind when they were kids.  It was probably for the best though, being with the Brotherhood probably would have seen the cook killed. 

 

“I went north, back to Winterfell instead.  Jon was there.  So was Gendry” Arya said, shrugging slightly.  She knew that was definitely the simple version, but they didn’t need to spend hours pouring over the recent wars.  The stories that flowed through this Inn would have reached the cooks ears somehow.  He knew of the wars; she didn’t need to elaborate. 

 

“You two finally made it there then” Hot Pie grinned at them, reaching out to clap Gendry on the shoulder.  Arry had always talked about going to Winterfell after they’d escaped Harrenhal. He just hadn’t realized that it had been her true home all along. 

 

“Took the long road” Gendry japed, Arya giving a soft snort of laughter as she elbowed him lightly.  They both had taken the long way back, and so much had happened since they’d last seen the cook.  Hot Pie didn’t notice the lingering glance between them, he just continued talking happily.  It had been so long since he’d seen his old friends.

 

“And Arry, you killed the Night King! I’ve been hearing stories and songs from all the Northmen who travel through here.  You’re a hero! Come on, heroes deserve a drink” Hot Pie raised a finger to make them wait as he bustled away to the kitchen, coming back out with two meat pies and three flagons of ale.  He set the tray down at a table, motioning for his old friends to sit.  Arya chuckled, taking up one of the cups and taking a sip. 

 

“Thanks, Hot Pie” she said, picking up a fork as she slid into a bench.  She’d been traveling alone and ravenous last time when she’d torn into the pie with her hands.  Now at least she stabbed it apart with her fork before picking up chunks of crust with her fingers.  Gendry took one of the cups of ale, sitting down beside Arya, his thigh pressed against hers as he sat next to her on the bench.  She leaned against him ever so slightly, her shoulder pressed against his subtly.

 

“So, you’re riding north with the King and Queen? What for?” Hot Pie asked, taking up the third cup and sipping at it while Gendry started in on his pie.  They’d been riding since morning, and breakfast hadn’t been much.  As soon as the buttery crust hit his tongue, the blacksmith could feel his stomach growl as he realized how hungry he was.  He almost forgot to use his fork to scoop up the meat and potatoes and carrots that filled the pie.  He also forgot that you’re generally not supposed to talk with your mouth full. Thankfully, Arya was in between bites, and answered before he could swallow.

 

“A wedding at Winterfell” Gendry almost rolled his eyes at Arya when she spoke, swallowing the mouthful he had been chewing.  She could never give a straight answer, she liked teasing people too much.

 

“Oh, is Queen Stark getting married?” Gendry shook his head, taking a swig of his ale.  He could feel the blush start to creep across his face as he looked over at Arya.  She raised one brow at him, a smirk crossing her lips as she looked from him to Hot Pie.  She’d let him take the lead on this one.  When it was clear that she wasn’t going to elaborate, Gendry sighed slightly.

 

“Actually, we are” he said, looking back at his she-wolf.  The cook gaped at them, his mouth opening and closing a couple times.  Gendry smirked slightly at the way the corners of Arya’s mouth started to twitch up into a smile against her best efforts.  He could see her trying to maintain that unreadable mask, but the look of shock on their old friends face was too delicious for her to deny. 

 

“Shut up! You two?” Hot Pie ran his hands through his short curly hair, a frown settling over his face for just a moment before he broke out into a huge grin, shaking his head. 

 

“Nah, it makes sense.  You two always were close, and Arry was always a girl anyway.  Plus, she was always watching you work in the forge.  I thought you said you’d never marry anyone Arry?” Now Arya’s cheeks burned pink at their friend’s words.  Gendry grinned at her wolfishly, raising a brow as he bumped his shoulder against hers.  She’d spend hours watching him work in the forge, just sitting there quietly as he pounded out the steel.  He’d almost forgotten the few times he’d caught her staring at him when he’d been made to work the forge at Harrenhal when they were younger.

 

“I made an exception” Arya said, smiling over at her blacksmith, reaching across to his knee under the table, squeezing his leg lightly, jostling her shoulder back against his.  Hot Pie looked between them, smiling to himself before he took a drink from his ale. They had always been closer to each other than they had been to him.  They’d all been friends, but Gendry and Arry had always been a little different.  Now it always made sense why the blacksmith had always been trying his best to protect Arry, he’d always known she was a girl. 

 

“So, have they been good to you here Hot Pie?” Gendry asked, taking a sip of his ale as he looked at their old friend.  Hot Pie shrugged slightly, smiling at them both.  He had food and a roof over his head, even if it was a lot of work.  There wasn’t any pay, but he never went without supper.  He supposed the Innkeeper and his wife were good enough to him, but even after these years he was still just a cook and a server to them.  He’d just been a boy when he’d decided to stay there, and part of him had hoped they’d be like parents to him.  That had not been the case.

 

“Pretty good, the Cranes have always been nice enough to me.  Been a bit harder now that Winter’s come though.  Less to go around, ya know?” He said, smiling back at his friends.  Even if things weren’t perfect, they were enough.  Arya tilted her head, looking over at Gendry.  He could see a mischievous look cross her face as she looked from him back to the cook.  She smirked at him mischievously, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table, quirking a dark brow at the brown eyed man. 

 

“Hot Pie… Have you ever been to Storms End?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Hot Pie


	49. The Call of the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> Arya and co are quite happy to make it back to Winterfell

-  Arya  - 

 

 

 

A night at the crossroads Inn had done them all some good.  Queen Daenerys didn’t look nearly so sullen when they mounted their horses the next morning.  It had turned cold again overnight, and their breath clouded in the air.  The clouds overhead were smooth and flat and gray.  Arya could smell it on the wind.  It would snow before sundown.  She yawned as she strapped her pack onto her horse, Nymeria sitting patiently to the side as she waited for her girl. 

 

Arya and Gendry had stayed up much later into the night than usual talking with Hot Pie.  They’d filled him in on some of the less gory details of their separate travels and absorbed the stories that he’d heard from his time working at the Inn.  Their portly friend had never been one for riding or long travels, so when Arya had asked him to join them at Storms End, the cook had agreed to join them for their return trip.  Another three weeks ride north, and then five weeks to ride back south did not sound pleasing to the baker.  Their path would lead them past the Inn again when they returned, and he would join them then as they headed to their new home.

 

Still, several flagons of ale, and talking until the candles burned low had given Arya an aching head when she woke early that morning.  Gendry was equally groggy when he climbed into the saddle, a yawn pulling from his lips even though he tried to suppress it.  As usual, when Arya was astride her horse, their baker friend burst from the Inn kitchen doors with two bundles in his hands.  He passed on to Arya and Gendry each, the pair opening them to find two loaves.  Arya’s a wolf, Gendry’s a stag.  How he’d managed to make the horns with dough, Gendry couldn’t say.

 

“Ride safe you two” the cook said, patting Arya’s horse on the flank gently, giving a wary smile to the direwolf that stood at her side.  She’d told them stories of Nymeria as a pup, but the fully grown direwolf was still prone to startling people.  The wolf was enjoying the cold weather, her thick pelt much more suited to snows and cold winds. Arya smiled down at the cook, gripping the reins of her horse.

 

“You be safe too Hot Pie… We’ll be back in a few weeks” She said, tucking the direwolf bread into her saddle bag for later.  She’d cut into it for supper tonight.  Given how good the last two loaves were, this one was bound to be fantastic.  Hot Pie beamed up at her, nodding his head at the young Stark. 

 

“You know me Arry…” He said, puffing up his chest as he looked at her.  His bravado drew a smile to her lips, and she nodded to him. 

 

“I know, we’re survivors…” she said, a hint of a chuckle in her words as she gave him one more smile before flicking the reins and starting on down the Kings Road going north.  The weather turned colder once you passed the crossroads.  The snow stopped melting every few days when it warmed, and the days stops climbing above freezing.  Just as she’d thought, it had snowed that day as they rode.  Their tents had been pitched in the snow, and the fire had to be built under a canopy to prevent the falling snow from snuffing it out.  That night Arya was very glad of the warm furs that were loaded onto the cart that traveled with them.  In the arms of her blacksmith, with Nymeria at their feet, they were plenty warm as the snowfall whispered through the grass outside. 

 

Winter only took hold more deeply in the weeks that they traveled north.  They’d had to hold camp for two days for one particularly bad snowstorm.  The flakes had been falling so thick, you could barely see your hand in front of your face if you dared step outside. Arya hadn’t minded stopping for a couple days.  She couldn’t train or spar with the heavy snow, but the bed was warm, and the arms of her betrothed called to her.  She enjoyed the lazy hours spent tangled together, loving and sleeping and waking only to wear themselves out with another round of lovemaking.  When the snowfall had finally stopped, there was still the fresh foot of snow to deal with on the road. 

 

Daenerys insisted they stop at every Inn they came across on the Kings Road.  As they drew further into the north, the Queen seemed less and less at ease.  When they reached the place where the realms of Jon and Daenerys ended and the North began, Arya had seen the queen’s scowl at the large direwolf carvings that stood on either side of the road.  Huge poles had been charred at the ends and driven into the ground on either side of the King’s Road.  The Stark sigil of the direwolf was carved into each pole.  Its meaning was clear.  Once you passed the wolves, you were in the North. 

 

As they continued along the road, Arya felt a comfort started building day by day as she recognized more and more of the countryside they were traveling through.  Even under the snows of winter, she recognized the north, and it called to her heart.  She hoped someday the Stormlands would call to her heart as well, otherwise she might find it hard to stay there.  She was glad to be back in the north, but she looked forward to learning the lands she would rule over with Gendry. 

 

She hadn’t been able to keep the grin from her face when the towers of Winterfell crested over the horizon in the distance.  They’d reach the keep by nightfall. When they drew close, Arya could see that most of the damage from the Battle for the Dawn had been repaired.  The front gates had been rebuilt, stronger than before.  The crumbled sections of the walls had been rebuilt as well, and life hummed through the castle.  Their ride through Winter Town had been uneventful.  Most of the smallfolk that remained had come to the safety of the castle.  The town had piled inside the walls for safety and warmth.  The local smith worked in the forge, the baker and cook now working in the kitchens.  The seamstresses worked for Queen Sansa now.  There had been so few left, the whole town had almost been needed to re-staff the castle properly. 

 

Sansa was waiting for them in the courtyard as the sun was setting.  Arya cantered through the main gates, a few hundred feet in front of everyone else, Nymeria at her side.  She stopped her horse, jumping down with ease.  A servant took the reins and she strode across the courtyard towards her sister.  Sansa was Queen now, a fine silver crown resting in her fiery red hair, the Stark wolves leaping from the metal.  It should have been customary for the Queen in the North to greet the visiting monarchs first, but Arya didn’t particularly feel like waiting. 

 

Sansa let out a small breath as Arya hugged her tightly, smiling as she returned her little sister’s embrace.  They were nearly in the same spot as they’d stood several weeks before, when Sansa had begged her to come home alive.  She was finally home, even if Winterfell could only be home this one last time.  Arya released her sister when Jon and Daenerys arrived in the courtyard, stepping to the side so that the King and Queen could be greeted properly.  Sansa and Jon hugged affectionately, smiling at her brother fondly.  They likely wouldn’t have the chance to see each other often, with both of them busy ruling their respective Kingdoms.  She was glad to have this time with her brother now. 

 

No one was more surprised than Daenerys when Sansa released Jon and turned to pull the blonde into a gentle hug.  It wasn’t the tight, lingering hug she’d given Jon, but it was the warmest greeting the Dragon Queen had ever received from the red wolf.  Dany wrapped her arms tentatively around Sansa, hugging her back gently before the redhead pulled away.

 

“Its good to see you all, was the road any trouble?” Daenerys still looked like she didn’t quite believe what had just happened to her when Sansa spoke.  Jon answered for them, smirking to himself at the shocked look that lingered on his Queen’s face. 

 

“We ran into a couple of snowstorms, but nothing too rough” He said, smiling at his sister.  She stepped away from the Dragon Queen, looking around to Arya and Gendry as well.  Her sister’s things were already on their way up to her room, since she’d arrived a couple minutes before the rest of the party.  Gendry was currently unstrapping his pack from the horse, trying to shoo away servants who were already insisting on calling him ‘milord’, which made Arya chuckle and the blacksmith scowl. 

 

“Well I have rooms prepared for you at any rate… We can have supper in the main hall, or I can have it sent to your rooms if you’d like to rest.” She offered, Jon giving her a warm smile.  He was glad to be back at the ancient castle, and especially glad to see his sister once more.  Daenerys wasn’t quite as chipper to be back in the north, lifting her chin slightly as she looked at the Queen in the North. 

 

“I think I’ll take supper in our room, thank you Sansa… The journey has been… tiring” she admitted, a surprisingly soft look crossing the redhead’s face.  She’d ridden north to south and back again a few times in her life, but those rides had always been in summer until recently.  Even her own return to the north had not been a particularly easy journey.

 

“It’s a long way to ride in winter, I cannot blame you” she said, stepping close to the shorter woman, curling her arm through Daenerys’s gently.  Sansa smiled at the Dragon Queen, squeezing her forearm gently as she started to gently lead the other woman towards the main keep of the castle. 

 

“Come, I’ll show you to your chambers.  I can have the servants draw you a hot bath from the springs” She said, a look of relief crossing Dany’s face, a true smile breaking out there.  The Inns they’d stayed at had straw cots and basins to wash in, but she’d missed the baths she’d been able to take in the red keep.  After a month of riding, she was more than ready to soak the grime of the road off of her skin. 

 

“That sounds perfect” she said, placing her other hand on Sansa’s as the pair of them made their way into the keep.  Jon stared after them with a bewildered look on his face. He’d never, in all his days, thought he’d see Sansa actually be kind to Daenerys.  Not just polite, but truly friendly.  He looked back to Arya, rubbing a hand over his beard as he looked at her.   She noticed his gaze, quirking a brow at him as he took a few steps closer to her, putting his hand on her shoulder.

 

“Arya, I think someone is impersonating our sister” he muttered, looking at her conspiratorially. She knew he was teasing, but only by half.  She’d never seen Sansa be that warm to Dany either, and the two of them walking arm and arm into the keep was quite the sight. 

 

“Just because Sansa is being nice to Dany doesn’t mean she’d been replaced” she quipped back, rolling her eyes at her silly big brother.  She bumped her shoulder against his, smiling up at him as they stood in the growing darkness. 

 

“Perhaps being granted freedom in the North had softened our dear sister to your wife” she suggested, watching as her brother ran his hand through his beard again, that familiar scowl settling over his face. 

 

“Hmphf… you’re probably right.  I just hope the peace lasts” he said, squeezing her shoulder gently before releasing his grip on the younger Stark woman.  She shook her head slightly, watching as the King hauled his pack off the back of his horse, the beast being led away to the stables for some food and a well-deserved rest. 

 

“I have a feeling it will” Arya said quietly, a smile settling over her face. The tension between Sansa and Daenerys had been mainly over the status of the North.  Now as an independent Kingdom, there was no more reason for her sister to hold malice for the Dragon Queen.  In truth, Sansa had seemed excited to have another woman around who wasn’t her wild little sister.  A woman who might appreciate beautiful dresses and fine things and not talk about hunting and killing and battles every minute.

 

After the mention of a hot bath for Daenerys, the pull of the hot springs below the castle was too much for Gendry to resist.  Jon had readily agreed, and the two had pulled clothes from their packs before heading to the hot spring together, leaving Arya to head back to her chambers.  She’d take a bath tomorrow, she wanted to at least be clean for the ceremony.  She wove her way through the halls of Winterfell, her feet tracing those familiar steps back to her room.  She pushed open the door, a smile crossing her face as she surveyed it. 

 

Everything was exactly how she’d left it, save for the fresh firewood stacked in the corner and the flickering flames that had already been built in the hearth.  Her pack had been placed on the bed.  The servants still knew better than to try to unpack her things for her.  The last time she’d returned, she threatened the girl who tried to put away her shirts.  She was still just as intimidating, but she didn’t feel the need to explicitly threaten anyone anymore.  She was the bringer of the Dawn, the hero of Winterfell.  Now they simply respected her. 

 

She put away what remained of her clean clothes, piling the dirty ones in a corner of her wardrobe.  She’d take them to the washers in the morning for a scrub, they were soiled from their weeks on the road.  She didn’t feel like smelling of horse for the rest of their stay.  When her clothes were tucked away, she took up a seat on the bed, drawing Stormbreaker from its sheath, starting to clean and polish the blade by the light of the fire.

 

She wasn’t surprised at the soft knock to the door before Sansa peeked in, a smile crossing the redhead’s face as she stepped into the room.  Arya smiled at her sister, setting the blade aside and patting the space beside her on the bed.  Sansa sunk down next to her little sister, smiling at the brown-haired woman. 

 

“I kept your room the way you left it” the redhead said, looking around the chambers.  In truth, she’d not been able to bring herself to assign someone to the room.  She knew it was probably the last time, but she’d kept the room unchanged for when her sister did someday return home.  Arya smiled at her big sister, reaching out to take her hand, threading their fingers together. 

 

“Thank you… its nice to be home again” Arya said, squeezing Sansa’s hand gently.  The Queen in the North smiled and returned the gesture, leaning her shoulder against the younger woman’s.  She tilted her head to the side, Arya doing the same, so their heads rested together as they looked into the flames that danced in the fireplace. 

 

“Its nice to have you home again” Sansa said quietly, a soft sigh pulling itself from Arya’s lips in response. 

 

“Only for a little while, then home needs to be somewhere else” the younger Stark said, turning her head to look at her big sister.  Sansa let out a sigh of her own, squeezing Arya’s hand tightly.

 

“I wish I could keep you for longer” the redhead confessed, a slight frown crossing her pretty face. Arya snorted softly in response, looking over at her sister with one brow quirked. 

 

“Hmm, you say that now, I’m sure I’ll have annoyed you enough that you’ll want to see the back of me within a fortnight” They’d been apart for nearly two months, of course Sansa had missed her.  It wouldn’t take very long for her wild antics and refusal to behave started to grate on her proper sister’s nerves.  Now it was Sansa’s turn to roll her eyes, bumping her shoulder against Arya’s lightly. 

 

“Very funny” she deadpanned, raising a brow at the younger Stark.  Arya chuckled, sitting up slightly to give a mock bow to the Queen in the North, fixing her with a mischievous grin as she straightened back up. 

 

“Yes, I am.  Thank you” She japed back, the two sisters breaking out into soft giggles as they sat so close together.  When they finally reined in their laugher and caught their breath, Sansa squeezed her little sister’s hand gently.  She’d missed her sister dearly.  They’d had so little time to get to know each other before, and she’d only been in Kings Landing a short while.  Now they had another few weeks at most before Arya rode off to the Stormlands with her blacksmith. Sansa chewed on her lip slightly, looking back to the flames and taking a deep breath before she spoke.

 

“So, about your wedding dress…” she started, Arya cutting her off with a scowl and sharp words.

 

“Sansa, I told you…” she snapped, though the redhead raised her free hand, silencing her sharp-tongued little sister. 

 

“I know what you told me, but I want you to give me a chance.  Can you trust me for a moment, little sister?  That I know you well enough for this?” Sansa looked back to her sister now, gray eyes meeting blue in the flicker of the firelight.  The redhead squeezed her sister’s hand firmly again, Arya returning the gesture as she met Sansa’s gaze.  There might have once been a time when Sansa would have derailed any preference of Arya’s for her own vision, but there had come to be an understanding between them now as adults. 

 

“…I trust you…” The words were genuine, though not without a hint of hesitation.  It was hard for Arya to trust anymore, even after the wars had ended.  So many rough years had left her changed, but she was learning to open her heart again.  Her reunion with her family, especially with Gendry, had lent itself to that process.  Sansa smiled broadly at her sister, standing up from her place on the bed, keeping their hands clasped as she tugged Arya towards the door. 

 

“Good, come with me.” She said, smiling to herself as she led the younger Stark woman down the halls of their family home.  She led them to the door of what used to be a bedroom, though no one slept there now.  She pushed open the door, leading them inside and letting it close behind them.  In the weeks since her return to Winterfell, Sansa had turned the room into a work-area for herself.  Now it was time to present the fruits of her labor. 

 

Arya sucked in a breath, feeling it catch in her throat as she looked at the garment that rested on the display.  Sansa looked at her little sister with concern spread across her pretty face.  She’d had dreams for her own wedding, but her dreams would not suit Arya.  Things had to be done a little differently for her sister. 

 

“So… will you wear it?” her voice was quiet and unsure as she looked at her little sister.  Arya turned to look at Sansa, and the redhead was shocked to see the faintest hint of tears in the corners of her eyes.  Arya smiled at her sister broadly, reaching up to rub at her eyes to keep the tears at bay.  Her answer couldn’t help but make Sansa start to tear as well, the sisters catching each other up in a tight hug.

 

“Yes, of course…”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know its been long enough now. Next chapter, its time to face the old gods ;)


	50. The Wolf and the Stag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> The Godswood, and the rest of their lives, is calling

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

Gendry was glad to be back at Winterfell.  He’d missed the grey stone walls, and the warmth of its forge, and especially the hot springs beneath the castle that Arya had showed to him on his first visit.  After he’d given up on keeping the hands of the servants off of his clothes, he resigned himself to being looked after. He’d still managed to grab clean shirt and trousers from his pack before they carted it off to the room he and Arya were to share. 

 

He’d been a hint surprised when Jon announced he’d join the smith for a bath, but it wasn’t as if the King had anything to be shy about. They’d journeyed beyond the wall together, fought together, killed together.  They were man enough to share a massive hot spring tub.  When they’d both sunk into the hot water and were relaxing in the pool, Jon eventually did ask him how he knew about the springs.  The chuckle that pulled from Jon’s lips when Gendry told him about him and Arya’s visit before the battle of King’s Landing echoed off the rounded ceilings, filling the air with his laughter.

 

When they were clean and the ache in their muscles had been sufficiently soothed by the hot water, they returned to the main keep.  They’d joined Arya and Sansa already at supper, both of the great direwolves already having placed themselves on one side of the table.  Nymeria had her head resting on her paws as she started up at Arya, Ghost mirroring his sister to Sansa’s side. Both of the wolves had grown spoiled by the girls who loved them so much. 

 

Daenerys had indeed taken supper in her and Jon’s chambers, leaving Gendry alone with the Starks.  Jon and the blacksmith sat across from the Stark women, and Gendry didn’t miss the way Arya’s eyes flashed with joy when she’d seen him again.  Conversation came easy among the Starks.  Sansa talked about the rebuilding of Winterfell, of what had been made the same, and what had changed.  He’d watched her puff up with pride when she proclaimed that the glass garden that her mother had so loved had finally been repaired.  It might be many years before the lemon tree in its center produced fruit again, but at least it wasn’t destroyed anymore.

 

They talked of wolves and hunts and tales from their childhood.  He mostly listened as he ate supper.  Even with smiles on their faces, when their stories came to the names of those they’d lost, of their father and mother, their brothers, he could see the flashes of pain in their eyes.  The night before the youngest Stark woman is married should have been a family affair.  With Bran the Three Eyed Raven spending most of his hours in his chambers, the three Starks at supper were all that was left of the pack.  He could already see how hard it was going to be for them to all be parted once more when they rode south again. 

 

He hadn’t realized the hour until the yawn that came from the King caused him to yawn in return.  Arya could barely stifle hers as well, and even the wolves yawned.  Sansa somehow managed to stay unaffected by the tiredness that took over the rest of the party.  She’d not been on the road for several weeks; she didn’t need rest nearly as much as they did.  Gendry didn’t miss the lingering hug Arya gave Sansa before she took his hand and pulled him back to their chambers.

 

The room was just the way he remembered it, down to her weapon resting on the table and both of their boots lined up, side by side at the foot of the bed.  He let out a sigh when the door closed behind them and they were finally alone again.  He happily kicked off his boots and pulled off his socks, climbing into the soft bed he’d only had a couple weeks to enjoy last time.  He was in his clean shirt and trousers from after his bath still, but he didn’t feel like changing.  Riding all day, plus his hot bath and far too many glasses of wine, had tired the blacksmith.

 

“Making yourself comfortable, I see…” Arya said, a smile curling over her face as her betrothed snuggled deep into the furs of their bed.  Even though he was strong and built like a bull, somehow, he looked small with just his face poking out of the furs.  He smiled up at her sheepishly, shifting a bit as he settled into the feather bed.  Their cot while camping had been good enough.  The only thing he could truly say that he enjoyed about being a Lord was the feather bed he got to fall into at the end of the day.  The one that belonged to them in Winterfell had been the most comfortable by far. 

 

“I missed it here” He said, shrugging slightly as he pressed his face into the pillow, suppressing another yawn.  He felt the bed dip as she climbed into the other side of the bed, a smile crossing his sleepy face as her arm wrapped around his waist and she tucked herself into his chest.  He yawned, draping his own arm around her shoulders as he held her close in the warmth of their bed.

 

“Me too…” she whispered, nuzzling her face into the warmth of the pillow where she rested her head.  He leaned up to press a tender kiss to her forehead, watching her with sleepy eyes as she still blushed at his gentle touches, as though she somehow didn’t think she deserved them.  Nymeria was already snoring softly by the fire, and it didn’t take long for the couple to follow suit.  They slept with Arya’s head resting lightly against Gendry’s chest, his nose pressed against the top of her head.  Their arms were curled around each other, as though they had to hold the other close in case someone tried to pull them apart in the night. 

 

When Gendry woke, he woke alone.  The winter sun was hidden behind clouds again, flat and gray much like the ones that had filled the sky when they’d left the Inn at the Crossroads.  Arya had explained to him on their travels how to predict the weather from the clouds.  On a day like today, it would be almost guaranteed to snow.  He knew it was traditional for the bride and groom not to see each other the day of the wedding, but he missed waking up with his she-wolf in his arms. 

 

She’d woken with the dawn, as she always did, and quietly slipped away without waking him.  Even Nymeria was nowhere to be found.  The hall at breakfast was quiet.  Daenerys had left their room to join the King and Lord of Storms End for breakfast, but she hardly touched her food, mostly poking at her toast and meat.  They didn’t say much, beyond Gendry asking the Queen if she’d slept well. Her shrugged response made it clear, she wasn’t in the mood for talking. 

 

Without Arya at his side, he almost didn’t know what to do with himself.  He had the whole day to get through before he saw her that evening, so he found himself doing what he did best.  The smiths had come back to work the forge daily, so the embers were already hot when he made his way to the anvil once more.  The smiths who he’d worked with before the Battle for the Dawn were mostly still there, and they quickly made space for him at his old workbench.  They knew he was a Lord now, but he was still a skilled smith. 

 

He spent the day making horseshoes, bending the metal into shape and boring holes into it for the shoes to be nailed to the hoof.  As he hammered away at the steel, it was easy to forget the growing bundle of nerves in his stomach.  As the day wore on and the sun rose high into the sky and then started to sink back down, he could feel that knot of anxiety starting to form.  The darker it got around him, the closer the hour drew that he would meet Arya in the Godswood. 

 

When the sun had finally set and he set down his hammer, he realized that it had been snowing for some time, a light dusting of white settling onto the uncovered surfaces of the forge.  He didn’t linger in the hot springs that night, just washing long enough to work the soot from his skin and hair before he dressed and headed back into the castle.  It was only when he was walking back to their chambers did he realize that he had no idea what he was supposed to wear.  He’d enjoyed teasing Arya about wearing a dress, but he’d completely forgotten that he was supposed to have wedding clothes as well. 

 

He pushed open the door to their room, brow furrowed as he tried to remember which tunics would potentially be fine enough for this kind of affair.  He could feel some of that knot in his stomach loosen when he saw the clothes that were laid out on the bed.  A leather tunic, lined with fur to keep him warm in the chilly winter air, and matching black leather trousers.  The tunic had a silver Baratheon stag stitched into it, and when he examined the cloak that had been laid out with the rest of the clothes, he smiled to find small stags and wolves chasing each other along the hem of his wedding cloak. 

 

He pulled it around his shoulders, fastening the Stag’s head clasp Sansa’s had made for him.  He very nearly didn’t recognize himself in the mirror.  His hair had grown somewhat shaggy on their ride north, though Arya had insisted on trimming it every few weeks.  He noticed now that she’d left his hair a little longer on the top of his head and a little shorter on the sides and back.  He’d been trying to keep up with shaving his face, but he’d grown a goatee since it was somewhat hard to keep clean shaven when you didn’t have a mirror. 

 

He almost jumped when a knock came on the door, opening it to find Jon standing there.  The King was dressed simply, but in fine clothes as well, though nothing as ornate as what Sansa had prepared for the young Lord Baratheon. 

 

“Its time… I’ll see you later” the King said, nodding his head to the blacksmith.  Gendry could feel that nervous feeling creeping back over him, but he pushed it aside. He had a very important person to meet in front of the weirwood tree, and he wasn’t going to risk being late to his own wedding. 

 

The fresh snow crunched under his boots as he made his way through the dark courtyard, though he was greeted by a warm glow as he neared the Godswood.  There was a path to the Weirwood tree, lined with lanterns to illuminate the way forward.  Sansa already stood before the great white trunk, Bran sitting quietly to her side as Gendry joined them.  Daenerys stood slightly behind the youngest Stark, the pair of great direwolves at her side.  With no human guards at the ceremony, the wolves stood watch over the Queen. Sansa stepped forward, adjusting the pin that held his cloak up, their blue eyes meeting for a moment in the quiet of the forest. There was no one else there with them.  No guards, no Lords, no servants.  Only family.  There were almost words that Gendry wanted to say to the Queen in the North, but they moment was broken by the words of the Three Eyed Raven.

 

“It’s time”

 

Gendry felt his breath catch in his throat at those words, he and Sansa resuming their places before the tree.  He clasped his hands in front of him, trying not to tremble as he waited.   He could hear his own heartbeat racing in his ears.  Even the cold kiss of falling snowflakes against his cheek couldn’t sway his focus now.  When he heard the crunch of Jon’s boots on the freshly fallen snow, it was though time itself slowed down.  When she finally came into view, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

 

Dark boots made no sound as she walked through the falling snow towards him, her arm curled through Jon’s.  The gown Sansa had made for her little sister was reminiscent of some of the dresses that Queen Daenerys had worn on her first visit, though the edge of the skirt fell a little lower. It wrapped across her chest, from one side to the other, pinned in place with a silver Stark direwolf.  The edges were lined in soft white fur, the bodice hugging her curves perfectly.  It was fine and feminine, and yet it was completely perfect for the wild she-wolf. 

 

The panels of the dress were thick white fabric, and along the bottom hem of the skirts were intricately stitched wolves.  On each side, the pack ran along the edge of the dress towards the split towards the center.  The detailed features of Nymeria and Ghost were clearly visible at the front of the pack, the rest of the Stark wolves that were long gone trailing behind. In the weeks since Sansa’s arrival back at the castle, she’d spent her free hours detailing the wolves into the skirt of the dress.  It had needed to be perfect for her little sister.  As she stepped, Gendry could see the white trousers she wore underneath her skirts as she walked, a small chuckle pulling from his lips.  Of course, she’d always said she’d get married in trousers, it just turned out she would marry in a dress as well. 

 

A thick white cloak was wrapped around her shoulders, and the loose waves of her hair fell untamed against the thick fur collar.  There were no braids or ties in her hair, it simply fell loose around her face, snowflakes sticking to the strands as she finally stopped to stand before him.  He could hardly breathe as she stood before him.  He wanted to badly to pull her into his arms and kiss her that he almost forgot why they were there.

 

Sansa cleared her throat, looking with a small smile between the pair.  Arya gazed at Gendry with just as much deep affection as he did.  She could see clearly on their faces how they longed to close the distance between them.  She would not keep them waiting.

 

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” She asked, her blue eye meeting’s Jon’s brown. They’d seen few wedding ceremonies in the north, but Maester Wulkin had been kind enough to fill them in on some of the finer details.  Jon lifted his head, meeting Sansa’s gaze before he turned his attention back to Gendry. 

 

“Arya, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble, slayer of the Night King and bringer of the Dawn.  She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” Jon said, feeling Arya’s grasp tighten on his arm at the words.  She clung to his arm as though she was holding on for dear life, and he could almost swear he felt her trembling.  He might have believed it was from nerves if he couldn’t see the excitement clearly splashed across her face as she gazed at her blacksmith. 

 

“Gendry, of House Baratheon, Lord of Storms End. Who gives her?” he managed to say quietly, the words sticking in his throat.  He’d learned the words from the Maester many weeks ago when he’d asked what a northern wedding was like.  He’d practiced them over and over in his head, though the title still felt strange on his lips.  He was just relieved he’d not got them wrong. 

 

“Jon, of House Targaryen, her brother and her King” Jon proclaimed, looking to his little sister.  For the first time since she’d entered the Godswood, Arya tore her gaze away from the face of her blacksmith, looking over to smile at her brother.  He released her arm, stepping away to the side as she stepped forward, closing some of the distance between her and Gendry. 

 

“Arya, will you take this man?” Sansa asked softly, watching her sisters face as she locked eyes with Gendry once more.

 

“I take this man…” She said softly, taking another small step forward, almost unbidden, her fingers twitching at her sides as she longed to reach out to him.  He could barely hear the words the Queen in the North said as he gazed into Arya’s gray eyes.  He could look at her forever.

 

“Gendry, will you take this woman?” Sansa asked, a little louder this time, trying to gently snap the young Lord out of his stupor.  It took a moment, but he found the words to answer her, his own hands curling and uncurling at his sides as his body hummed with energy. 

 

“I take this woman…” he breathed, a silly grin settling over his face as he looked at her.  He looked at her as though she was the most beautiful thing in the world.  When his eyes raked over her and she saw the unbridled love in his gaze, for once the young she-wolf felt as beautiful as she looked.  In that moment, she wouldn’t have scolded him for calling her beautiful.  Just this once.

 

The redhead reached out, undoing the clasp on Gendry’s cloak as Jon did the same for Arya.  The cloth was pulled from their shoulders and placed in their hands.  Gendry couldn’t help but grin as he wrapped the dark Baratheon cloak around Arya’s shoulders, fastening the stag clasp under her chin carefully.  Much to his surprise, she returned the favor, wrapping her white Stark cloak around his own shoulders, fastening the wolf’s head that kept it in place.  As Arya finished latching the clasp, she laid her hands flat on Gendry’s chest, looking up at him as they stood in the falling snow, the mist of their breath mingling with how close they stood now. 

 

“You are hers and she is yours.  Cherish each other until the end of your days, may they be many and good.”   Sansa lifted her chin, a smile settling over her face as she spoke the final words.  Some of them had not been completely traditional, but exceptions could be made for the Bringer of the Dawn on her wedding day.  Gendry didn’t have time to think, staggering slightly when Arya threw her arms around his neck and dragged him into a passionate kiss.  His arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her close until their bodies were pressed flush together. 

 

The clearing and the Godswood and their family gathered around melted away.  The cold winter air that nipped at his cheeks felt like nothing.  He didn’t feel the burn of melting snowflakes on his skin, nor the chill of the air through his leather tunic.  He was lost in the feeling of her, wrapped in his arms, her fingers threading through his hair as she tried to pull him even closer.  They broke apart for air only when they absolutely had to.  He pulled her into a tight hug as they stood together in the falling snow, pressing his face into her hair as they caught their breath in the soft glow of the lanterns.  He felt her warm breath on his neck as she hugged him back just as tightly, his heart turning flips in his chest as he heard the softest of whispers from her, the words brushing along his skin. 

 

“ _I love you_ ”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expanded on the traditional northern ceremony slightly. Hope you enjoy <3


	51. Spun Away All Her Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> Everyone is supposed to dance at their own wedding.

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

For the first time in her life, Arya hadn’t felt out of place in a dress.  Sansa had taken the peculiarities of her little sister to heart when she had designed the younger woman’s wedding clothes.  Arya would have never been happy with a tight corset and restrictive skirts.  She still needed to be able to mount a horse and bolt from the castle if it all became too much.  Yet when Sansa had finished pinning the Stark cloak around her shoulders and stepped aside to let her little sister look in the mirror, Arya had never felt less like running in her life. 

 

In years past, the thought of someone waiting for her before a Weirwood tree would have sent her running for the hills.  Now, knowing who stood in the snow waiting for her, there was no where she wanted to be more.  The walk from the castle to the Godswood with Jon had felt so long and so short at the same time, but the look on Gendry’s face when she’d seen him in the dim glow of the lanterns had been worth the butterflies that danced in her stomach. 

 

The outpouring of love that she felt from her blacksmith was enough to steal the breath from her lips as the distance between them grew smaller.  She raked her gaze over the man before her, heart racing as she memorized that moment.  She loved the way the glow of the lanterns illuminated the contours of his face.  She loved the way the snowflakes gathered in his hair and in the fur of his cloak.  She loved the way he trembled ever so slightly, able to tell he was holding himself back from taking her in his arms.  She loved that reverent look on his stupid bull face that made her want to kiss him so badly.

 

She was glad the northern ceremony was a short one.  No chanting or singing or time wasting.  Much like the north, their vows were strong and simple.  When Sansa spoke the final words, that wild impatience had broken within Arya, and she’d dragged her blacksmith down into a burning kiss.  She hadn’t been able to wait another second longer to have his arms around her once more.  When her lungs screamed for air, she tore her lips away from his, pressing her face into his collar as she hugged him tightly.

 

“I love you…” she’d whispered, feeling him grip her just a little tighter, his breath catching as he pressed his face into her hair. 

 

“I love you too…” She’d grinned against his neck when he whispered those words back to her, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck as she caught her breath after their kiss.  Part of her had been so scared that she would feel trapped when the words were said, and she was bound to him for the rest of her days.  Somehow, she felt more freedom than before.  Now nobody could take him away from her.  They’d always been bound, ever since they protected each other as children.  They’d been torn apart by forces beyond their control, even though it had taken so many painful years, they were finally together again.  No one was going to pull them apart.  Never again.

 

She parted from his arms quite unwillingly, though she knew they couldn’t just stay standing in the snow forever.  Even though the ceremony in the Godswood had been private, the northern Lords of all the great houses had ridden to Winterfell for her wedding feast.  Also, perhaps to get another audience with their new Queen.  The Northerners were a proud people, but winter was here, and times were going to be rough until spring came.  What better occasion than a wedding than to beg an audience with their ruler. 

 

Sansa pushed Bran back down the path of lanterns, followed by Jon and Dany, the monarchs flanked by the direwolves.  Arya paused for just a moment, taking the time to carefully curl their fingers together, holding his hand tightly in her own.  He shied away from touches and displays of affection in public because he’d always been told it wasn’t right. He’d never thought himself good enough for her, even though he’d always been good enough in her eyes.  Now the words were said, and his hands were the only ones she wanted to hold.  No one would protest when a wife took the hand of her husband. 

 

_Husband_.  That word still felt strange in her mind.  He didn’t feel like her husband, he felt like her best friend.  He felt like her lover.  He felt like her favorite person in the world, even more so than Jon.  Perhaps he would just have to be a different type of husband, just like she would have to be a different type of Lady.  He wouldn’t be the husband who would order his wife about and expect obedience.  He wouldn’t keep her from her family or try to stuff her into pretty dresses.  He wouldn’t be the husband who dismissed her words and thoughts.  He’d still be Gendry, her stubborn blacksmith who came from nothing, who wanted to give her everything. She decided she liked her new meaning of the word.

 

They followed the rest of the royal family back to the castle, just a handful of steps behind the wolves.  When they stepped through the doors of the great hall, the young couple were deafened by the roars and cheers from the Lords of the North.  Even Tormund had ridden down from The Wall on short notice, if only to tease the blacksmith about bedding a she-wolf.  

 

Usually the head of the table would be occupied by the ruler, but tonight the seat of honor belonged to them.  Arya strode down the row of tables, Gendry’s hand grasped tightly in her own as they made their way to the high table.  She only let go of his hand when they moved to sit, taking his hand back into hers when they were both seated.  She could still feel that he was slightly stiff, sitting at the high table with people looking at him.  She squeezed his hand gently, smiling when her gray eyes met his blue.  She leaned in, pulling him in for a lingering kiss, feeling the tension fall from his shoulders as he leaned into the kiss. 

 

When she pulled away, his cheeks were flushed and he was looking at her with those dark eyes again, and she smirked at him knowingly.  Had their family not been standing with them, she might have had him in the snow of the Godswood after the words had been said.  As wonderful as he looked in his wedding clothes, she was looking forward to taking them off of him. 

 

Northern feasts weren’t ones for long speeches, and the wine and food were welcome.  Music started in the room, softly at first as the celebration began.  The newlyweds were served their wine, and after they both drank, another raucous cheer tore through the hall.  As round upon round of wine and ale was served among the family and the guests, the music began to shift and change to accommodate the celebration.  When there had been good food and conversation, the music had been softer.  When the food was all but eaten and the wine began to flow more steadily, the pace began to increase.  When the drunken howls of the northmen started to ring through the halls and tables were shoved to the side, the music finally reached a pounding rhythm that was suitable for dancing. 

 

Arya knew she’d had too much wine, but she really didn’t care.  She could tell from the flush in Gendry’s cheeks that didn’t fade that he was just as pissed as she was.  She’d taken to sitting _on_ the high table after the feast had been cleared away and all that remained were candles and cups.  Jon had been telling stories of when they were children, about the day that Arya had snuck away from her needlework, only to outshoot Bran at archery in front of their father.  Dany’s eyes always lit up at the happy stories of her husband’s youth.  He was starting to talk about the hunt when they’d found the direwolf pups when Gendry had grabbed Arya’s hand.

 

He'd been across the hall talking to Tormund for some time, probably trying to convince the wildling that his new wife actually did _not_ transform into a giant wolf on the full moons.  The wildling was convinced there was even more of the wolf blood in Arya than she let on.  Somehow, the smith had managed to leave the redheaded wildling behind, but now he was trying to pull his reluctant she-wolf into the center of the hall to dance. 

 

“Come on” He begged, squeezing her hand as he tugged her towards the center of the room.  She dug her heels into the stone and stood fast, pulling him back towards her, away from the men and woman who spun and danced there. 

 

“Gendry, I don’t even know how to dance” she said, shaking her head as she looked at the twirling figures.  Another skill she’d never learned, though the dances that whirled across the great hall seemed much less like the carefully choregraphed movements her mother had always made her learn.  Gendry stepped close to her, one hand settling on her waist as he pulled her in close to his chest.

 

“Neither do I, come on…” He said, smiling down at her as he started to sway slightly back and forth with his arm around her. 

 

“Gendry…” she whined, pushing on his chest slightly before she saw the look on his face as he gazed down at her.  As drunk on wine as they both were, she still reveled in the adoration in his eyes as he looked down at her.  He reached up to caress her cheek gently, his blue eyes pleading. 

 

“Arya, Please?  I just want to dance with you at our wedding, just once…” he begged, a smile curling across his face as she sighed in defeat.  Now it was her turn to admit, she was a fool for those blue eyes that called so deeply to her heart. 

 

“…fine, but when I step on your toes, it’s your fault” she insisted, rolling her eyes when he grinned broadly.  He stepped back, taking both her hands in his own as he led her towards the center of the room.  The song was fast and spirited, and she let out a very uncharacteristic squeak when Gendry pulled her close, one hand on her waist, their other hands clasped.  Not quite properly to the rhythm, he started to lead her around the room with the other dancers.

 

They were awkward and fumbled a couple times, and true to her word Arya trod on Gendry’s toes more than once, but by the time they’d made it around the room a couple of times, they had fallen into the beat of the music.  They almost cantered around the room, half stepping, half jumping with the other dancers.  When they had finally found the rhythm, a smile had broken over Arya’s face as she’d galloped around the room with her blacksmith. 

 

When she thought she couldn’t possibly lose her breath any more than she already had, he pulled away from her, taking her hands in his own again, bounding with her to the center of the room.  She wasn’t completely sure what he was doing, but she let him lead as they began to spin in the center of the room.  Her head was already spinning from the wine and the rush of the feeling of his arms around her, and now the room spun as well. 

 

She laughed, tears of joy streaming from the corners of her eyes as they spun together in the center of the room.  She almost collapsed into his arms when the song finally ended, out of breath and laughing along with her blacksmith as he tried to steady himself on a nearby table.  The crowd erupted into howls and cheers when she pulled him down for a breathless kiss, his hands wrapping around her waist as he pulled her close into his chest.

 

They leaned their foreheads together, panting softly as they tried to find their breath, silly drunken grins plastered over their faces.  The music struck up again, but it was slow and gentle this time, lads pulling the ladies they were sweet on out onto the dance floor.  The couples all spun slowly; the lass wrapped in the arms of her man. 

 

Arya almost protested when Gendry started to pull her towards the floor again, but the look on his face stilled her tongue.  As his hands settled around her waist, her own curled around his shoulders, her fingers threading up into his hair gently.  She barely even noticed they were slowly stepping in time with the music, spinning ever so slowly.  The rest of the room melted away as they spun there, fading away into the background.  It was only Arya and Gendry and the slow lilting music of the violin. 

 

Arya toyed with the hair at the nape of Gendry’s neck as they spun slowly, their faces just a couple inches apart as they danced.  She didn’t feel the eyes of the room on them, nor did she care if they saw when she leaned in and closed the distance between them in a tender kiss.  She hardly noticed when his arms tightened around her and they stopped spinning, simply standing in the center of the room as they grew lost in the kiss.  She broke away from him when she realized the music had stopped and what remained of the celebration was staring at them.  Suddenly she felt very exposed, though the warmth of Gendry’s arms steadied her nerves. 

 

“Maybe its time we should go to bed…” She whispered to him, trailing her fingers gently through his hair.  She could _feel_ the growl rumble through his chest as he looked down at her with those dark blue eyes again. 

 

“Excellent suggestion, _milady_ …” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her ever so lightly before he pulled back, taking her hands in his own.

 

“Your Graces, my Lords, thank you for this feast and your company.  Its time for us to retire for the night” He said, raising his brows at the hoots and catcalls that erupted from the northern lords.  Arya rolled her eyes, starting to lead her blacksmith from the hall, shaking her head at the silly gaggle of men who were so enflamed by the idea of her taking a man into her bed.  Drunken old perverts.  Who knew, maybe they’d cheer even louder if they knew that Arya had taken her smith to bed long before their wedding night.

 

She gave a final bow to Jon and Sansa, and a very sleepy looking Dany who seemed to be dozing against Jon’s shoulder as he talked with his redheaded sister.  She grasped Gendry’s hand tightly as they made their way down the halls of Winterfell, though when she reached the staircase that they usually climbed to get to their bedroom, she tugged him down a different hall.  He was so ready to head for the stairs that he almost lost his balance when she tugged him in a different direction. 

 

“Our chambers are that way” he said, a confused look settling over his face.  Arya paused, turning to face him.  That mischievous smirk worked its way across her face as she looked up at Gendry in the darkness. She leaned up to kiss him lightly, pulling back and whispering against his lips. 

 

“We’re not going to our chambers” she murmured, pulling away just as he leaned forward, enjoying the groan that worked its way from his lips as he reached out for her and she flitted away.  She saw the storm flash in his blue eyes as he took a couple steps after her, taking her by the waist and pulling her back against his chest.  Now his eyes were dark and playful, and she couldn’t help but let out a sigh when he leaned down and started to press teasingly light kisses along her jawline. 

 

“Oh? Where are we going?” He said the words quietly against her skin. Now it was her turn to groan softly before she slid from his grasp.  She reached out and took his hands in her own, leading him down the corridor.  Her gray eyes were half lidded as she gazed at him longingly in the darkness.  That playful smile still lingered on her face as he followed her dutifully. 

 

“You’ll see…”

 

 

 


	52. Lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Its not a feather bed, but Gendry isn't complaining.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

With the feast still raging in great hall, the rest of Winterfell stood silent. The snow fell thick over the castle, muffling any sounds that might have crossed the great courtyard.  Gendry couldn’t help but stumble slightly as Arya led him through the halls of the castle until she pushed through a side door, leading him into a familiar place.  One of the doors that he’d never seen opened in the forge storeroom led directly into the castle.  Leave it to Arya to know where all the secret passages in her home were.

 

The storeroom was very much the way he remembered it, though it seemed Arya had made some changes. There were candles all around the room, and it seemed as though someone had shifted some of the bags of grain to make for a flatter surface.  There were several furs draped over the sacks of grain as a makeshift bed, topped with a thick blanket.  Gendry smirked to himself as he looked over at Arya, raising a brow at her teasingly

 

“The forge? Really?” He quipped, chuckling at the blush that spread across her cheeks. He stepped closer to her, sliding his hands along her waist and pulling her in close to his chest.  She curled her arms around his neck, threading her fingers into his black hair. 

 

“I like it here… it’s the first place you belonged to me after all…” she said, that warmth blooming in his chest as he looked down at her.  He’d never forget that night, when she’s teased him and taunted him and shoved him back onto the sacks of grain to claim as her own. 

 

“I always belonged to you,” he said quietly, his gaze softening as he leaned down to kiss her gently.  He could feel her smile against his lips as he closed his eyes, leaning into their embrace.  He let out a hum against her lips as she raked her fingers through his hair, pulling back to breathe again.  Arya’s fingers caressed across his cheek gently, and he opened his eyes to find her gazing up at him. 

 

“ _I_ know that… now they do too…” Arya whispered, letting her hands slide down to start to undo the ties that held his tunic closed.  Gendry could feel his breath catch in his throat as she carefully picked at the laces, undoing them one by one until he could start to feel the leather loosen.  He let out a soft groan when her hands found their way to his skin, pushing the leather away from his shoulders as her fingers roamed over his chest.  He couldn’t help but smile when they paused over the wolfs head pendant that still lay tucked against his skin.  He barely noticed when she’d undone the length of the tunic and had pushed it from his shoulders, leaving him bare to his waist.

 

Even in the dead of winter, the heat from the forge filled the air and fought off the bitter chill.  He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel cold with her hands on his skin though, he loved the way her touch set trails of fire across his body.  Carefully, he reached out and started to undo the fastenings on her dress.  He unpinned the direwolves that held the bodice of the dress in place, though it was almost fashioned more like a jacket that had been wrapped around her and pinned. 

 

He sucked in a breath when the sides of the dress fell away to expose her torso to him.  She’d not worn anything but the white trousers underneath her dress.  She pulled away from his grasp to shrug the dress from her shoulders, wrapping it carefully in the Baratheon cloak that she’d been wearing since the Godswood.  Sansa would have her head if she got the dress dirty, even if it was only made to be worn just the once. 

 

The slow, deliberate movements that Gendry had been trying so hard to maintain seemed so much more difficult now that she was half bare before him.  He bit his lip as he watched her bending down to lay the wrapped-up dress carefully across the top of a few barrels, taking a couple steps across the forge storeroom to pull her into his arms.  She gasped softly as he pulled her back up against his chest, leaning down to press his lips to her shoulder as his hands roamed across her bare chest. 

 

She pressed her back up against him, grinding her hips back against his as he slid one hand down the front of her trousers, the other cupping her breast as he ground their bodies together.  She could feel the press of his arousal against her ass, and Gendry couldn’t help but love the way she shuddered when his fingers began to stroke at her clit in slow circles.  He let his lips trail up from her shoulder, along her neck so he could nibble at her ear.  The moan that fell from her lips when he captured her earlobe between his teeth made him ache for her, and he could feel her hands gripping his forearms as she tried to steady herself.

 

He wasn’t prepared when she squirmed out of his grasp, turning around in his arms to look up at him with lust filled eyes.  Her cheeks were flushed again, those gray eyes dark and hungry as she pulled him down for a searing kiss.  She kissed him deeply, pulling a groan from her blacksmith when she tugged on his bottom lip with her teeth.  He pressed even closer to her, his hands settling on her hips as their tongues twined and danced.  He hardly even noticed her fingers undoing the ties on his trousers as she started to wiggle them off his hips.

 

Their movements were starting to grow hurried as the desire overwhelmed them.  Arya pulled herself from Gendry’s arms for just a moment, taking that time to kick off her boots and pull off her socks, her trousers quickly following suit.  Gendry tugged off his own boots, discarding them carelessly to the side before wiggling out of his trousers as well.  They stood still for a moment, just staring at each other in the glow of the candlelight.  Her eyes raked over his body, admiring the muscles of his arms and his chest, chewing on her bottom lip for a short moment. 

 

She loved the way his gaze similarly raked over her body.  She’d been so worried before that he might not like the scars that marred her skin and told the stories of her past, but he loved them despite her history.  The matching pendants were the only bit of clothing they had left on, but they never took those off anyway.  When their eyes finally met again, it was as though the dam broke between them.  They closed the space between them, lips crashing together as they collided, hands roaming across each other’s bodies as desire overwhelmed them. 

 

Arya groaned when her back collided with the sturdy wooden pillar that supported the store-room ceiling, wrapping her arms around the blacksmith.  She whined in protest when he broke the kiss to lean down and hike one of her legs up around his hips, but her protest was quickly overthrown when he pressed the head of him against her entrance.  She moaned as he wrapped his arms around her, using the pillar and the strength of his arms to press her up against the wall as he sunk into her. She wrapped her other leg around his waist, her breath already growing short as pleasure flooded her. 

 

Gendry pressed his face to Arya’s neck, kissing along her skin as he started to thrust against her, using his leverage against the pillar to hold her body up against his.  Her nails dragged along his back as he left love bites and hickeys along the skin of her neck, moans and gasps and grunts of pleasure echoing through the storeroom as he ground their bodies together.  Arya could feel that torturous pressure building deep in her stomach as he thrust into her, each breath causing another moan to pull itself from her lips.  The way his hips collided with hers sent jolts of pleasure through her body, and it didn’t take long for her to come undone. 

 

She tipped her head back against the wall and cried out his name as she came, her legs tightening around his waist as she clenched and shuddered around him.  Gendry smiled against the skin of her neck, panting as he felt the release tear through her body.  He slowed his thrusts, pulling her hips away from his, despite her groan of protest.  She didn’t seem to mind though when he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her away from the wall, carrying her over to the furs that she had laid over the sacks of grain. 

 

He sunk down beside her, leaning over to pull her into a deep kiss, letting out a chuckle against her lips as she pressed his back down into the furs and she climbed into his lap.  He pulled back, looking up at her as she straddled him.  Much like the first night they’d fallen together into this very same place, she looked at him with a mixture of hunger and longing in her eyes.  Last time they’d been here, they’d been on the eve of war, not knowing if they would see the following dawn.  Now, every dawn and every sunset belonged to them.

 

She braced her hands against his chest, a sly smirk crossing her face as she sunk back down on him, rocking her hips against his.  He couldn’t stop the moans that came with his breath as she rode him, his hands reaching out to grip her waist for leverage as he bucked his hips up to meet hers.  She rode his hips with the same confidence that she rode her horse, rocking her body against his rhythmically. 

 

She leaned down, kissing him over and over as their breath mingled together, her hands digging into the furs beside his head as they ground their bodies together.  She whined against his lips when he slid his hand between them to stroke between her legs in time with his thrusts.  Their first time in this very place had been hurried and frantic and fumbling as they’d rushed to touch and feel every inch of each other.  Now they’d had several months in each other’s arms, and they hardly needed to exchange words.  He’d learned the way her body trembled under his touch, memorized the movements that had brought her to gasping release. 

 

He could feel her starting to clench around him again, pausing for a moment only to push away from the furs to roll them over so she laid on her back. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she arched up to meet him, her arms wrapping around his neck.  He lowered his head to her neck, swiping his tongue across her skin, leaving a love bite on the curve of her shoulder.  He lifted his head in time to see her throw her head back against the furs, her eyes closed tightly as she cried out again, the sight of her coming undone beneath him bringing him to his own release.  He felt his arms shake as he spilled himself into her, pressing his face against her neck again as he panted through his pleasure. 

 

He didn’t move to pull away from her, closing his eyes as he nuzzled his face against her throat, reveling in the feeling of her fingers running through his hair slowly.  He could hear her own labored breathing, his heart beat pounding in his ears as they laid together in the dim light of the forge store-room.  Her legs were still wrapped around his hips, her hands roaming over his shoulders, fingers sliding along the back of his neck to curl into his dark hair as she caught her breath with him.  He lifted his head from the crook of her neck, leaning into kiss her lovingly, though he had to keep the kisses short so they could breathe.

 

After a time, she uncurled her legs from around his waist, and he pulled away from her to lay at her side among the furs. They lay shoulder to shoulder, chests heaving as they caught their breath in the low light.  Even with the candles burning low, Gendry still loved the way the steel glinted against her pale skin in the low light.  Arya reached out, threading their fingers together as they reclined on the furs.  He found himself letting his eyes close as he enjoyed the feeling of her thumb caressing across the back of his hand gently. 

 

“Gendry…” The sound of his name brought him back into focus, and he turned his head to look at her.  Her hair had been loose for the ceremony in the Godswood, now it was messy and wild around her face from their passionate lovemaking.  She looked every bit the wild she-wolf that she was, with her wild hair and flushed cheeks as she looked at him from their bed of furs.  A look crossed her face that he couldn’t place, and he watched as she worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. 

 

“When we get to Storms End…” She said, squeezing his hand slightly, trailing off as she looked at him.  He could see a flash of mischief in her eyes, but that look was covered by a hint of uncertainty. 

 

“Yes?” he said, turning onto his side slightly so he could look at her, waiting for her to finish the thought that was so clearly swirling around in her eyes.  She looked away for a moment before her gray gaze met his again, a playful smile curling across her lips as she scooted closer to him.  She released his hand, pressing herself against his chest and leaning in to kiss him deeply.  She pulled back from the kiss, raising a dark brow at him as that wolfish grin he loved so much curled across her face.

 

“Since you’ll be the Lord… do you think we could put a cot in the forge?” He couldn’t help the deep laugh that rumbled up from his chest at her words, grinning madly as he reached up to pull her back in for another deep kiss.  She smiled against his lips, her hands starting to roam over his chest slowly as the heat started to build between them again. 

 

They’d just finished, and yet he could feel that burning desire building in his body again, and from the way Arya’s eyes went dark as she pulled back from the kiss, he knew she was feeling it as well.  He’d never get tired of the feeling of her lips on his neck or her hands on his skin. As the friction between them started to build, he let himself get lost in the feeling of her against him.  As her hands curled into his hair and her nails raked over his skin, he felt he was the luckiest man alive.  He had no way of knowing she felt so much the same, lucky to have the stubborn Stag all to herself.  As they tumbled together in the furs, fingers groping and teasing as the heat burned between them, they knew they were lucky, just to love and be loved in return.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #forgesex ;P


	53. Willow Bark Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> hangovers are a bitch

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

When the candles had burned out and they were left in the dark of the early morning, they’d gathered their clothes and snuck back into the castle.  As wonderful as it was to make love on a pile of furs and sacks of grain, it was much nicer to sleep in a feather bed.  They’d been too tired to bother with building up a fire, though they did have the forethought to pull on a layer of clothes before they climbed into bed.  Arya stretched out on her side of the bed, pressing her face into the pillow and letting one arm drape lazily across Gendry’s chest as sleep tugged at her tired eyes. 

 

She let out a soft yawn, the expression mirrored on the blacksmith as he looked at her with an equally sleepy face.  He reached up to where her hand rested on his chest, picking up her hand and bringing it to his lips to press a gentle kiss to her knuckles.  He laid her hand back on his chest, resting his hand on top of hers as his eyes started to droop.  Arya couldn’t help but smile slightly as her own vision began to darken, sleep finally claiming the newlyweds. 

 

Arya woke when the sun intruded on her slumber, making her groan as she brought her arm up to shield her eyes.  Her head ached and her mouth was dry, and even the soft sound of Gendry breathing beside her seemed much too loud.  Now she clearly remembered why she didn’t drink that much wine.  The way her head spun with it was nice at the time, but the morning after left much to be desired.  She slid from the bed, shuddering slightly when her bare feet hit the cold wooden floor. 

 

Mercifully, it seemed Sansa was always two steps ahead when it came to being a good big sister.  A pitcher of water and two clean cups sat on her desk, as well as two cold mugs of brown liquid.  A small note beside them explained their purpose, and Arya could only smile.

 

_Willow bark tea – for the headache_

_~ Sansa_

 

Sometimes it was hard for the sisters to say that they cared for each other.  Theirs had been such a strained relationship as children, but it had grown much warmer in the short time they’d had together as adults.  Perhaps her proper sister might not say it out loud, but it was the tiny gestures that showed her love.  The thought to draw a bath for her after the battle for the dawn, how she’d started sending in a second plate for Gendry immediately, and now the tea.  In her quiet little ways, it showed how her big sister cared. 

 

Arya drank the tea gratefully and gulped down two full glasses of water, that parched feeling starting to fade.  She turned to move towards the fireplace, but then she paused, glancing back to the bed where her blacksmith slept.  She picked up his cup of the willow tea, setting it on his side table, along with the clean water glass and the pitcher.  She didn’t want him to have to get up for it when he woke.  She took a moment to admire his sleeping face before rubbing her eyes, turning away and crossing the room to sit before the cold fireplace.  A yawn slipped past her lips as she built up a pile of kindling and sticks and logs.  She used the flint and steel to spark the tinder, blowing on it carefully until flames started to lick and curl across the twigs.  It didn’t take long for the fire to grow, devouring the wood and bathing her in warmth.  The room was chilly after the fire had been out for so long, so once the flames were roaring, she made her way back to the bed. 

 

Gendry stirred when she climbed back into the bed and snuggled herself into his side.  She could see how he was trying to cling to sleep, but it was fading fast.  He let out a groan as the pounding started up in his own head, squinting and reaching up to cover his own eyes.  Arya smiled a little, closing her eyes as she nuzzled her face against his shoulder.  In the time it had taken her to build the fire, the tea had done its work, and the ache in her temples had faded considerably.  She opened her eyes again when she heard Gendry give a resigned sigh, finally having given in to waking up. 

 

“Good morning, _wife_ …” He murmured, turning his head to press a soft kiss to her forehead.  Arya felt her heart race at the word, the smile on her face broadening slightly as she tipped her head up and leaned in to capture his lips.  She’d never thought she’d be somebody’s wife, yet she found herself enjoying the word as it came from his lips. She pulled back slowly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from his forehead.

 

“Good morning… _husband_ …” the word still felt strange on her tongue, like a word in another language.  She’d had difficulty with Valyrian at first, the way her mouth had to move to form the words quite alien.  _Husband_.  That word felt alien to her now, but when husband meant Gendry, it didn’t seem quite so daunting.  She could see the way he was still shielding his eyes.  His head must be aching just as badly as hers had been. 

 

“How’s your head?” she asked quietly, reaching up to caress her thumb across his cheek gently.  He sighed and leaned into her hand slightly, though his brow was still furrowed ever so slightly with discomfort. 

 

“Hurts…” he grumbled, rubbing at his temple lightly.  It did little to ease the ache that was building behind his eyes. 

 

“There’s willow tea and water on the side table, courtesy of Sansa” Arya said, pulling back slightly so he could sit up to reach the cups.  For a man with a hangover, she’d never seen him move so quickly.  The tea was gone in a few gulps, and he downed three glasses of water before that dry feeling in his throat had been quenched.  He sunk back down into the feather bed, rolling on his side to face her, happy to angle away from the sunlight that came streaming in through the window.

 

“Thank the gods for your sister…” he said, sighing softly as he closed his eyes and pressed his face into the pillow.  Arya couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle as she snuggled up to his chest, letting her own eyes close as well as she curled her arm around his waist.  She didn’t even realize that she’d dozed off until she was waking up again, still curled up against Gendry’s chest.  He’d fallen back asleep too, but it didn’t take much prodding to wake him. 

 

He yawned, blinking sleepily at Arya, a smile curling across his face when he realized his headache had faded.  The willow tea and a little more sleep had done the trick.  Now though, a new discomfort spread through him, and they both could hear when his stomach growled unhappily.  A soft chuckle pulled from Arya’s lips as she looked up at him, squeezing around his waist gently. 

 

“We should probably go down to breakfast soon… though I don’t know how long we slept; it might be lunch” She said, feeling the gnawing in her own stomach.  There had been plenty at supper the night before, but they’d worked it all off in the forge storeroom, and now she was hungry again. 

 

“Either way, I’m starved.” Gendry grumbled, stretching slightly in the bed, letting out another yawn.  Arya smiled at him, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek before she wiggled out of his arms. 

 

“Me too” she agreed, starting to dress properly. She’d pulled on the first pair of trousers and shirt she’d found when they’d staggered into their bedroom in the early morning hours.  Her shirt was inside out, and her trousers were the one’s she’d been wearing when they’d arrived at Winterfell the day before last.  She needed to get better about putting her clothes away, but tidiness had never been her strong suit.  Her mother had always been scolding her about the state of her room.  She stripped out of the dirty clothes, pulling on a warm pair of trousers and a dark leather tunic, wrapping her usual cloak around her shoulders. 

 

She glanced over at Gendry, watching as the sleepy faced blacksmith yawned as he tugged on clean trousers and boots.  He didn’t seem to care that he was putting on the previous night’s trousers, and seeing the drowsy look on his face, she didn’t want to bother him with it now.  She glanced at the mirror, combing her fingers through her messy hair, pulling it back into a loose braid, just to keep it out of her face.  She’d drag her new husband off to the hot springs for a bath later, now food was more important. 

 

Nymeria followed close at their heels as they headed down the steps towards the great hall.  It definitely seemed as though they’d slept in.  The room was bright and flooded with daylight, meaning it was nearly midday.  However, it seemed the majority of the castle had overindulged the night before, and everyone was just now getting around to breakfast.  A few drunken hoots and whistles echoed through the hall at their arrival, followed by an overwhelming ‘ _shhhhhh_ ’ from the rest of the occupants.  Some, like Tormund, had been so drunk that they’d still been drunk upon waking.  His continuing to drink his fermented goats’ milk for breakfast kept the wildling man in a constant state of inebriation.  After all, he was here to celebrate.

 

Even Sansa was there for breakfast and was actually eating along with everyone else.  Even at her own coronation feast the redhead had never drunk so much wine.  It hadn’t helped when Arya had insisted they all play The Game of Faces as a drinking game, and Sansa had failed miserably.  Arya had called out every single lie she told, though she’d lost on some of the truths.  They’d both had far too much to drink, and even the Queen in the North had needed a cup and a half of willow bark tea and a few more hours sleep to clear her of the headache she’d had when she woke. 

 

Jon and Daenerys hadn’t even come down, choosing to take breakfast in their chambers.  Arya couldn’t blame them, she’d almost wanted to do the same, but they were supposed to make an appearance.  She’d laughed at the mention of a bedding ceremony, but they’d taken her stern ‘no’ to heart and let the young couple take themselves to bed.  At the very least they needed to show up the following morning looking properly tired. 

 

Gendry certainly looked the part.  He might not have checked in the mirror, but a few love bites were starting to show on his neck.  One couldn’t expect to tousle with a she-wolf without getting bitten once or twice.  He almost forgot to use his fork when the servants arrived with a plate for him and Arya, tucking into the eggs and sausage on the plate with gusto.  Arya wasn’t much better, though she did pause to breathe every now and then. 

 

Sansa had the good sense to wait to talk to her little sister until the she-wolf had finished her breakfast.  It had never been a good idea to get between Arya and food.  When Arya was four, she’d tried to bite Sansa when the redhead had stolen her cookie.  Sansa could still remember their mother scolding the little wolf and demanding she ‘ _stop trying to maul her sister_ ’ as she tried to hold back the squirming hellion.    

 

“So… did you sleep well?” Sansa asked as she sipped at a mug of hot tea.  Arya had her own, sipping slowly at the steaming peppermint drink.  She’d eaten a bit too fast and her stomach had almost started to ache, but the peppermint tea helped soothe that.  She smirked into her mug, taking a sip before fixing her sister with a mischievous look. 

 

“Well enough, though we didn’t get much…” she said, chuckling when Sansa snorted softly into her own cup.  They’d started to find it easier to laugh together again.  Arya set her mug down on the table, stretching her arms as she looked over to her sister. 

 

“Thank you for the tea, it helped a lot” She said, smiling over at the redhead.  She wouldn’t be sitting and smiling and not wanting to kill people for daring to breathe if it hadn’t been for the tea.  Sansa chuckled quietly, shaking her head as she held her teacup in both hands, enjoying the warmth of it.

 

“I needed some myself.  Remind me to never play drinking games with you ever again” she chided, rolling her eyes at the younger Stark.  Arya grinned, raising a brow at her sister and lifting her chin defiantly. 

 

“Definitely not, I plan on drinking you under the table every time I come to visit” she declared, wrinkling her nose at her sister as Sansa gave an exaggerated sigh.  Arya had told the redhead that she’d soon grow tired of her wild wolf of a sister, but she could tell Sansa was only teasing her back in her own way. 

 

“How kind…” she drawled, raising her own brow in kind at her dark-haired sister.  She set down her mug of tea, reaching into one of the pockets of her dress, pulling out a sealed scroll. 

 

“A Raven came for you this morning, from Storms End.  For you both…” She said, handing the paper to Arya.  Arya turned it over in her hands, examining the Baratheon seal on the black wax that kept it closed.  Gendry still looked rather groggy, and there was no reason for her to reveal to her sister that her new husband couldn’t read.  She could see the very faint writing on the outside.  Their titles and names were too long, but she could make out the tiny scratching of their first names.

 

“Gendry, we got a raven from Davos” she said, her words finally catching the blacksmith’s attention.  They’d parted ways after Jon had named Gendry heir to Storms End.  The Onion Knight had rode the weeks journey south to Storms End to start gathering the liege lords and preparing them to meet the newest Baratheon.  Arya could only be thankful that the man had addressed the scroll to them both.  Now with news from his favorite almost-father, she had Gendry’s rapt attention.

 

_To Lord Baratheon and Lady Stark,_

_I’m sure that by the time this raven reaches you, congratulations on your wedding will be in order.  My arrival at Storms End was not met with entirely open arms, but after some persuading and the certificate of legitimization that King Jon and Queen Daenerys were so kind to provide, most of the liege lords have come around. There is a lacking in leadership amongst them, and they need someone with a good head to lead them.  I’m sure a Stag and a Wolf are just what this place needs._

_I look forward to seeing you both again soon._

_Ser Davos Seaworth_

 

Arya rolled up the scroll again when she finished reading it out loud, tucking it away into the pocket of her trousers.  Gendry had a broad grin over his face, having grown fond of the Onion Knight in return. He’d never forget the broad smile on the older man’s face when Gendry had asked him to come with them to help manage Storms End.  They had spent many years apart, but now the Onion Knight had finally been able to send for his wife to join him at the keep to help run the new Lord’s household.  Davos Seaworth had been very glad to go home.

 

There was no one the blacksmith had trusted more to handle things in Storms End before he arrived, and Arya was in complete agreement.  She’d come to like the Onion Knight for his simple but direct speech and his tendency to speak his mind, regardless of the company.  She had also come to like him for how kind he always was to Gendry.  At feasts, when seating allowed, the Onion Knight would often sit next to the smith, long before he’d ever been a Lord.  The older man was as close as Gendry had ever had to a father, and they both trusted him when it came to the Stormlands. 

 

Gendry finished off the last of his breakfast, getting up from the table, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Arya’s ear absentmindedly.

 

“I’m going to the forge… come find me later?” He said, smiling down at her fondly.  She chuckled, reaching up to take his hand in hers, bringing it to her lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. 

 

“Of course, you know I love to watch” she said flirtatiously, biting her lip as she looked up at him with one raised brow. He let out a groan, shaking his head as he pulled his hand from her grasp. 

 

“You’re going to be the death of me, _wife_ …” he chided her playfully, shaking his head as she chuckled at him.  Even now, a blush worked its way across his face at her words, just the idea that she liked to watch him in the forge just a little bit dirty.  Maybe because she liked him a little bit dirty.  Damnit, he couldn’t keep his head on straight around her. 

 

“You can count on it, _husband_ …” She purred in return, smirking after him as he tromped from the hall, still shaking his head.  She glanced back at her sister, the redhead looking at her with one raised brow.  The Queen in the North had been watching the couple since Arya had taken the scroll.  Even though they’d only been reunited for a handful of months, there was an ease to the way they moved around each other that hinted at the years they’d spent as friends in their youth.  Sansa shook her head slightly, sighing as she looked at her little sister.

 

“You two are strange… I suppose its only fitting you marry someone as strange as you” she teased, smirking at her little sister playfully.  Arya rolled her eyes, resisting the temptation to stick her tongue out at her older sister, though a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.  She just shrugged, picking up her mug and finishing off the rest of her peppermint tea. 

 

“I married my best friend; most people aren’t that lucky” she said, setting the mug down, looking over at her sister once more.  Suddenly, she was overcome by the sadness that she saw flash through Sansa’s eyes.  Her sister had been married twice, and neither had ended well.  Marriage had been nothing but chains and torment and pain for her older sister.  Arya couldn’t help but feel that ache in her chest for her sister as the redhead looked down at her empty teacup.

 

“No, they’re not…” They’d talked about the past, about what they’d each had to go through to make it back home.  If there was anyone who deserved some happiness after what she’d suffered, it was Sansa.  The red wolf wasn’t sure that kind of happiness would ever be for her.  She doubted she would ever find her own blacksmith to love.  Those were the dreams of a girl long since passed. 

 

 

 


	54. Ginger and Mint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Daenerys
> 
> Dany is sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.

-  Daenerys  -

 

 

 

Daenerys had not enjoyed the trip to the north.  She’d found herself more wearied by their long days on horseback than she had in years past.  Part of her wondered if it was just her age.  She’d been barely a woman when she’d started riding with the Dothraki for days on end, but it had been years since she’d spent so much time in the saddle.  She missed flying on Drogon.  There was nothing that compared to soaring through the skies.  She could have flown from Kings Landing to Winterfell in a couple of days, instead they’d had to make the month-long journey to the North through the snows of winter. 

 

She’d been infinitely grateful for the warmth from the Queen in the North, as well as the warmth of the bath that the redhead and drawn for her that night upon their arrival.  She’d stared out the window into the darkness outside the castle as she’d soaked away the ache of the road in the hot bath.  She didn’t enjoy this cold, but she’d seen the way the rest of her traveling companions had embraced it.  Even the blacksmith turned Stag seemed invigorated by the chill.  It just made her feel tired.  She missed the sunny shores of Pentos from so many years ago, when she could wear light silks and never feel cold. 

 

The first morning after they’d arrived at Winterfell was the first morning she was sick.  Jon had already left to meet his sister for breakfast when she had found herself heaving over the washing basin on the desk.  She’d blamed it on supper the night before, perhaps it hadn’t settled well with her, though she’d felt fine the night before.  She’d picked at her breakfast, unable to get the acidic taste out of her mouth, the flavor spoiling her meal.  Just the thought of eating made her stomach turn flips, and she was trying to avoid another episode.

 

By the time the day had passed, and the wedding was said and done, she’d found her appetite for the feast.  Somehow she’d managed to worm her way out of the drinking game that the youngest Stark woman had demanded they play.  She just watched as the three siblings got progressively drunker and drunker, sipping slowly from her own goblet of wine.  She’d been paced and careful, not to eat foods too rich or drink too much wine, yet she found herself heaving into a pot again the following morning.  This time, the sound of her retching set off her unfortunate husband, who gagged over his own basin when he heard her.  She supposed two glasses had simply been too much wine on an uneasy stomach. 

 

She threw up the next three mornings, and she’d made a point not to have any wine those nights.  On the fourth morning, after she’d rinsed her mouth out with water half a dozen times, she’d sent a servant girl off the fetch the Maester.  Clearly, she was subject to some ailment and she wanted it gone.  She was tired of feeling woozy until lunch.  The retching left her shoulders aching and her body feeling drained.  Maybe winter in the North simply didn’t agree with her. 

 

She’d opened the door to her chambers when the soft knock of the Maester came.  The portly man stepped inside; hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe as he bowed to her.  He had his satchel of medicines and tonics over his shoulder, ready to try to treat whatever was ailing her.

 

“Your Majesty, I was told you were feeling poorly?” the older man said, placing his bag on the desk before he turned to face the southern Queen, his hands clasped in front of his belly.  Dany raised her chin slightly, nodding to the portly Maester.  She hated admitting this weakness, but she needed to find a remedy.

 

“Yes, for several days now.  Ever since I arrived in the North, I have been ill in the mornings, and all my strength seems to have left me… I fear I may have contracted some illness…” She said, fixing the portly man with her stern violet gaze.  Somehow, the Maester didn’t seem nearly as concerned about her symptoms as she was.  He simply nodded, rubbing his chin before he began to question her. 

 

“This vomiting, is it only in the mornings?” he asked, drawing a blank piece of parchment and a coal pencil from his satchel, scribbling notes about her symptoms and her answers. 

 

“Yes, the nausea usually passes by lunch” she replied, gesturing for the portly Maester to sit at the desk instead of hunching over to scrawl his notes. He nodded to her as he sat down, Dany taking up a similar position on the bed, her hands folded in her lap.

 

“Have you noticed any other physical symptoms?” he prodded, looking up at her for a moment, pencil poised over the parchment as he waited for her answer.

 

“I’ve simply been very tired, which must be from the riding…” She said, waving one hand flippantly.  She probably just needed a few more good soaks in the water from the hot springs.  She wasn’t used to needing to keep warm, she’d always lived where the air was gentle and heated, the north was chilled and not to her liking.  The Maester paused with his notes, looking over at Daenerys with a slightly furrowed brow. 

 

“Forgive me, your Grace, but how long has it been since you’ve had your moons blood?” He asked carefully, watching the young woman with his aged eyes. Daenerys felt suddenly small.  She knew that of all the people in the castle, the Maester was to be the one trusted with this kind of information, but it felt so very personal.  She hadn’t even thought about her moons blood during the journey, but now when she thought back, the last time she had bled was two weeks before the wedding and subsequent coronation.

 

“… two moons…” She confessed softly, staring down at her hands.  There had never been too much of an interruption in her bodies cycle before.  She’d had some late months where five or six weeks might pass between her bloods, but they always came eventually.  Usually such lateness was accompanied by a battle or a trying political event. The last time she’d been this late was when she had been just a girl, and her belly had started to round with Khal Drogo’s son. 

 

“Again, forgive me, but wasn’t your wedding nearly two moons ago, Your Grace?  Perhaps you and the King were blessed by the gods on your wedding night” The Maester shifted in his chair slightly when he spoke, watching the young Queen as she sat on the bed across from him.  Most married women were delighted to discover they were with child, but the Dragon Queen looked like she very well might be sick again. 

 

“You don’t understand, I can’t have children… For many years… before the King.  There were others, but never…” She knew she was babbling, so she shut her mouth quickly, though she couldn’t keep from wringing her hands together slightly as she stared down at her lap.  When she’d married Jon, she’d been quietly grateful for the curse laid upon her by the witch who had killed her first husband.  Jon’s qualms about their relationship had come from their shared blood, and she’d been somewhat glad to know that there would be no more mad Targaryen’s from their line.  Jon had known that she was barren too, else she knew he never would have laid with her.  She could already picture the look of disgust on her husband’s face when he received the news. For the first time since that terrible day in the throne room, Daenerys almost felt as if she wanted to cry. 

 

“Perhaps now that your wars are over, the Mother decided you were ready.  Turmoil can upset a woman’s body, and you spent years in constant battle, Your Grace.  Now the wars are done, your body knew it was time, with your rightful husband.” The Maester offered, though his words didn’t seem to give the young Queen any comfort.  He shifted in his chair again, making a couple more notes on his parchment before he turned his focus back to her medical issues. 

 

“Have you noticed any changes in your body, Your Grace? Any cravings or aversions?” He prodded gently, seeming to snap the southern Queen out of her daze.

 

“No cravings or aversions… but… my chest has been somewhat tender…” She admitted, worrying her hands in her lap.  She’d thought it was just normal tenderness like that which happened before her moons blood, but now that she thought about it, it had been some weeks that it had been bothering her.  She’d taken to pinning her dresses not quite so tightly around her chest as to allow for a little more breathing room but hadn’t given it a second thought until now.

 

“All sounds very normal, Your Grace.  I’ll have the kitchens send you ginger and mint tea every night before bed and every morning, that will help settle your stomach.  If you’re just two moons, then the illness should pass in a few weeks, perhaps sooner.” The portly Maester said, tucking the parchment away in his satchel before he stood, reaching out to pat the despondent looking Queen on the shoulder gently.  For a newly married Queen, she should be beaming at this news, not frowning, but it was not his place to pry. 

 

“Thank you, Maester Wulkin… That will be all…” She said quietly, glancing at the man once more before he stepped away and bowed to her. 

 

“Your Grace” He said, stepping back out into the hall, closing the door and leaving Daenerys once more alone in her chambers.  The quiet seemed deafening as she sat there alone, the only sounds her own breathing and the crackle of the fireplace.

 

_Pregnant_.  She was pregnant.  She couldn’t be pregnant.  She’d been with Dario too many times to count, and she’d been with Jon nearly a dozen times on their journey to Winterfell the first time, yet she’d never become with child before.  She’d been telling the story for so many years, how she had been cursed by a witch and would never bear any more children into this world.  In some ways, she’d told it to protect herself.  What better way to dissuade a man from wanting to marry her than to learn she could bear him no children.  Perhaps the Maester had been right, that so many years of fighting and turmoil and stress had taken their toll on her body.  Now that there was peace within the Kingdoms, and even though her relationship with Jon was still strained, these were the calmest days she’d faced since Khal Drogo’s death. 

 

Jon hadn’t laid with her as her husband since their wedding night when he’d had far too much wine. Sure, he shared her feather bed and wrapped his arms around her at night, but he’d still pulled back from her when their kisses grew too heated.  He was so conflicted about their love.  Would he be just as conflicted about their child?  _Their child._ She pressed her hands to the soft curve of her stomach, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the child or the dress.  She’d been barely five moons when she’d lost Rhaego and hadn’t even known until her handmaidens had told her. 

 

She rose from her place on the bed, undoing the clasps that held her dress in place.  She opened the sides of the dress, moving to stand in front of the mirror.  She tried to stand as normally as possible as she studied her reflection.  She hadn’t paid it any mind, perhaps because she hadn’t been able to study herself while they had been traveling.  She ran her fingers over her skin, over the slight rounded curve at the base of her belly.  She prodded gently, not surprised to find that her rounded belly was firm, not squishy like it would have been if she was simply gaining weight. 

 

She let her hands rest over the small bump for a lingering moment before she re-pinned her dress, leaving it just slight looser around her chest and hips.  She looked back at her reflection in the mirror, studying herself.  She didn’t look any different, you wouldn’t notice anything if you weren’t looking for it.  She certainly hadn’t been, and she missed everything.  Now that she knew, she _felt_ as though she were different. She looked at her reflection, smoothing her hands over her stomach tenderly, a small smile crossing her face.  She never thought she’d get to be mother to human children.  Now the thought of holding a tiny son or daughter in her arms started to melt the ice that had formed in her heart at the news.

 

For several moments, she thought about if she could tell Jon yet or not.  It was early, so early that it wouldn’t be uncommon for her to still lose the babe in the coming weeks.  Many women kept it quiet until three moons had passed and they were sure the babe was strong, but Jon had noticed her retching in the mornings, and he’d started to worry over her.  She wouldn’t be able to keep the secret from him for very long, not as soon as she started to get better with the tea. 

 

Regardless of how he was going to take the news, she still needed to tell him.  She left her chambers finally, making her way through the halls of Winterfell towards the only good place she knew to look for Jon in this bloody gray castle; the Godswood.  He did always love to brood there.  She could make out a dark cloaked figure near the trunk of the Weirwood, and in her hurry to find her King, didn’t even think that it may have been someone else.  When she reached out to the figure, and they whirled to meet her with hands ready on their weapons, she realized her mistake. 

 

“Arya, I didn’t realize you would be here… I was looking for Jon…” The sight of the Lady of Storms End had surprised her but given how much Jon and his sister looked alike, she hoped she could be forgiven for confusing them at a glance.  The young Stark was wearing her hair pulled up at the top, the way her father always had, just like Jon often did.  Arya had even turned much the same way Jon would have, her hands on her weapons, ready to strike at anyone foolish enough to try to sneak up on her. When the gray eyed she-wolf realized who it was, her hands dropped away from her blades, and the frown that had been etched into her brows softened. 

 

“Mmm… We both like to brood here, it was my turn today” Arya said fondly, looking around the clearing with an almost wistful look on her face.  The Dragon Queen had no way of knowing, but the youngest Stark had been talking to her father, though she knew he couldn’t really hear.  Being under the Weirwood tree was the closest she could get to her father now, and she’d been taking the time to tell him about her blacksmith and her life and how much she missed him. Whispering to the ghost of her father was as close as Arya got to prayer anymore.  Dany smiled a little bit at the young Stark woman, looking around the forest as well. 

 

“Have you seen him?” She knew Arya slipped in and out of the castle as she pleased, though when in the same castle together, it was often true that you’d find the two wolves often in close quarters.  If anyone knew where Jon was, Arya was likely the best person to ask. 

 

“He was sparring in the yard with Gendry.  He got tired of me winning” Arya said, tilting her head as she looked at the Dragon Queen.  Already Daenerys’s attention was elsewhere, her mind already mapping the way through the castle to the training yard near the forge where her Husband would be facing off against the blacksmith.  She managed a small smile, nodding to Arya before she started to turn away.

 

“Thank you, I need to speak with him…” she said politely, taking a couple steps away from the she-wolf, one hand flitting to rest over her stomach.  The words that called across the clearing stopped her in her tracks.

 

“…you’re with child…”  Daenerys turned, pressing her hands firmly to her sides as she looked at the other woman, surprise clearly splashed across her face.

 

“I…What?” She stumbled over the words, but she could see the way that the younger woman’s eyes raked over her.  Arya had always been perceptive.  From what Jon had told her about Arya’s life in Braavos, she’d honed those skills over years with death hanging over her head every day.  She cursed that indulgent side of her that had paused to touch her belly again, giving the Stark woman the final puzzle piece to the question of ‘what’s been ailing the Queen?’.  Arya scuffed her foot in the snow, looking over the Queen discerningly.

 

“You were poorly the whole ride up here, and you’ve not eaten a single thing before noon since we arrived… you’ve been tired every night by sundown, and the moment you said you needed to speak to Jon, your hand went to cover your stomach… you just realized you’re with child, and you need to tell him…” Arya laid out each fact plainly, so plainly that Daenerys still felt quite silly for not putting the pieces together herself.  She’d been so convinced this day would never come that she’d not even considered it a possibility. 

 

“Well… you’re nothing if not observant…” The words came out as a soft sigh, and she straightened her shoulders slightly as she regarded the younger Stark.  Suddenly, Arya looked quite guilty, and Dany immediately felt bad for her chilly response. Arya glanced down, scuffing her boot in the snow again, frowning down at her feet.

 

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit… I’ve been told its rude to notice those kinds of things”  Sansa had chided her about it when she’d first returned to Winterfell and pointed out all the changes, all the things she didn’t like, all the ways Sansa was slowly working her way into a position of power in the north. It simply wasn’t polite to lay everyone’s secrets bare. Daenerys looked away, sighing softly, clasping her hands together, if only to keep from smoothing them over her stomach once more.  It was going to be very difficult to keep this secret.

 

“Congratulations though… you’ll be good and loving parents…” Dany looked up at Arya, a smile crossing the Queen’s face, the expression mirrored on the younger Stark.  Praise of any kind was rare from the fierce young woman, and it was still taking considerable time for them to grow closer, but a warmth had started between them and had begun to grow comfortable. They were family now, and Dany had no doubt that the she-wolf would be a doting Aunt to her niece or nephew.

 

“I can just tell by the way you spoiled those beautiful dragons that you’ll be just as doting to your wingless pups” Arya said, resting one hand on the bark of the Weirwood tree as she looked at the Queen.  Daenerys raised a brow, letting out a soft chuckle at the other woman’s words.  Did she forget that dragons didn’t have pups?

 

“I think you mean dragonlings” Dany corrected teasingly, smiling fondly at the Stark woman.  Arya raised a dark brow at her Queen, a smirk curling over her lips as she regarded the blonde.  The wolf blood ran strong in the Starks, especially so in Arya and Jon. The wolf had clearly won in Jon, even though he was a dragon too.  Arya wasn’t quite so sure that Daenerys would get the dragons she was dreaming of. 

 

“Maybe… I got the wolf from my father, Jon from his mother… someday you may end up with a wolf pup too” she said, giving the Queen a playful smirk.  Daenerys had always dreamed of silver haired violet eyed Targaryen children, but in that moment, she could picture a wild black-haired wolf child running loose through the red keep.  If a wolf child would be anything like Arya, then Daenerys would certainly have her work cut out for her.  Yet when Dany imagined a daughter now, she imagined one like Arya, wild and willful and wolf. 

 

“I’d like that…” she said, nodding to the dark-haired young woman. She knew now, her sons could be dragons, but she wanted her daughters to be wolves. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long, its a pretty chonky chapter, and I was made to go out and socialize after work last night instead of camping out at my desk, so this one got delayed a bit. 
> 
> Also, it was so hard to keep going with y'all guessing this in the comments and knowing you were right but still needing to keep the suspense!
> 
> I'm terrible at secrets, I almost commented back confirming half a dozen times. :P


	55. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Jon
> 
> He takes the news about as can be expected

-  Jon  -

 

 

 

Jon quite enjoyed sparring with Gendry.  They were similar in height and build, though the blacksmith certainly had a few more muscles in his arms and shoulders than the King.  They clashed together with mighty blows, the sound of their steel ringing across the courtyard as they sparred.  Jon had been sparring with Arya every day on their way up to Winterfell, even when there was snow on the ground.  He still couldn’t keep up with her, even after so much training.  His armor and sword were to heavy to allow him the mobility that allowed her to best him every day. 

 

Now they were in Winterfell, he’d grown tired of being beaten by his little sister in front of the other men.  At least now with Gendry, they ended their match in a draw, both men puffing as they leaned against the wooden pillars near the edge of the training yard.  He’d finally caught his breath when Daenerys stepped through the arch of the courtyard, her violet eyes finding his immediately.  She was in one of her fur lined gowns again, and he had to admit the look suited her.  He knew she wasn’t as comfortable in the north, but she still looked graceful in her winter garb. 

 

She crossed the courtyard to stand beside him, flashing a small smile at the young Lord of Storms End before she looked back to her husband.  She clasped her hands in front of her fixing him with her violet eyes. 

 

“Jon, could we speak alone?” she asked quietly, resting her hand on his arm gently.  Gendry looked at the two of them, raising a brow before he pushed away from the pillar he was leaning on, picking up his Warhammer.

 

“We were finished up anyway.   I’ll see you later Jon…” He said, nodding his head to the King, bowing slightly to Daenerys before he headed away across the courtyard back to the forge.  He’d taken a break to spar with Jon, but his work called him back.  The smith knew his hours in the forge would be limited once they arrived at Storms End, so he had decided to make the most of his access to the Winterfell forge. 

 

Jon turned his focus back to Dany, walking with her to a secluded corner of the courtyard, standing with her in the shadows.  Now the sparring had finished, the few onlookers who had gathered had dispersed, and they were left alone in the yard.  Daenerys looked down at her hands for a long moment, letting out a soft sigh. 

 

“I saw the Maester earlier, about my morning illness…” She spoke quietly, still not looking up to meet his worried gaze.  She’d been retching every morning, even before breakfast, and she’d not been able to keep anything down until midday.  He reached out to rub her shoulder gently, giving his wife a worried look.

 

“And?”  She still wouldn’t meet his gaze.  Her words were even more quiet than before, and they struck ice into his heart.

 

“The Maester said… I am with child… apparently morning sickness is very common…” She looked up at him now, violet eyes meeting brown.  He could feel the blood rush from his face, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach.  Now he almost felt like he was going to be ill.  She’d told him that she’d been cursed and couldn’t have children, and when nothing had come from their times together on the ship, he’d believed her.  Maybe it just hadn’t been the right time. 

 

“You’re certain? He whispered, looking down at her. Her face fell slightly, and his heart ached at the every so slightly pained expression that crossed her face.  This was clearly not the reaction she had hoped for, but his emotions were torn.

 

“Yes…” That word hit him like a ton of stone to the chest.  His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest as he stood there with her in the shadows.  He couldn’t see any change in her body, but he wasn’t going to argue with the Maester.  Their wedding had been just two months past, and that night they shared would have been the only time a child could have been conceived.  It pulled at his heart, to know that the woman he loved was carrying his child.  One part of him wanted to badly to pull her into his arms and kiss her, and another part of him still curled away in revulsion at the blood they shared. 

 

“Jon…” The sound of his name snapped him back into focus and he looked down at her.  She reached up to cup his cheek, but he stepped back slightly, shaking his head.  He couldn’t think, the thoughts in his head were spinning too fast, and the feeling of her hand on his face was too distracting. 

 

“I… I can’t… I’m sorry I just…” He stammered, pulling away from her and walking quickly across the yard, heading towards the Godswood.  He didn’t know where else to go.  He didn’t even notice Arya watching from the shadows.  She had followed the Queen from the Godswood to the training yard. The young Stark watched with furrowed brows as Daenerys rushed back into the main keep, tears streaking down her face as she tried her hardest not to break out into sobs.  The she-wolf turned and followed her brother into the forest, a scowl on her face as she traced his footprints in the snow.  When she found him, he was leaned against the trunk of the Weirwood tree, rubbing his hands over his face as he stood under the blood red leaves. 

 

“Jon…” He looked up when she called his name, looking at his little sister with a pained expression on his face. 

 

“Daenerys is with child…” he choked out, closing his eyes and rubbing them with his hands as he tried to get those intrusive thoughts out of his head. The ones that told him how bad it was that they were related, that it was wrong that he loved her.  He sighed, looking back to the she-wolf, but she was not surprised.  She only met his brown eyes with her gray and nodded once. 

 

“You knew?” He murmured, furrowing his brow at her.  Arya sighed, taking a few steps closer to her brother to stand at his side, her shoulder touching his as they stood under the Weirwood tree

 

“Quite shortly before you… she came here looking for you but found me here instead.  I noticed some things that caused the bigger picture to pull out of the fog.  I just guessed correctly” She said, shrugging as she looked at her brother, a smile crossing her face.  He was in shock, for certain, since whatever he’d said had caused tears from his wife.  He was not taking the news well.  Jon looked back at his little sister, opening and closing his mouth before he found the words that had been bothering him so much. 

 

“But the child… my father… our blood” He mumbled, breaking his gaze from Arya’s as he stared at the crying eyes of the face that was carved into the trunk of the great tree.  The smile fled from Arya’s face as she looked at him, a scowl settling across her brow as she looked at him. 

 

“I thought you’d moved past that.” She said, her words soft and accusatory.  She’d not been surprised when he’d confessed that he’d taken her to bed proper on their wedding night, and she’d thought that had been the end of the distance between them.  From the way they behaved when they were together, she had thought the issue had been settled weeks ago. Jon sighed, rubbing his hand over his head through his hair

 

“Not quite…” He confessed, meeting her gaze only to be chilled by the steel in her eyes. 

 

“…do you still push her away at night?” He frowned, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly as he looked away from her.

 

“…yes” he muttered, looking anywhere but at his sister.  He looked around the clearing, at the snow on their boots, at the bark of the tree before him.  Anything to avoid facing that painfully cold glare from his sister.  He only looked at her when she grasped his shoulder, forcing his attention back to her.  The look on her face filled him with shame, anger burning in her gray eyes.

 

“You need to stop this Jon… can’t you see you’re hurting her?” She snarled at him, her tone biting as she glared at him.  He shook his head, shrugging his shoulder away from her grasp.  How could he make her understand how torn he was over this? The story of his sister’s love was like one written for a bedtime story.  The story of his love was a twisted tragedy, a mess of duty and devotion, everything that should have been so good and easy tainted by the truth of his parentage.

 

“But…” he started, flinching back when Arya cut him off sharply, her words slicing deep.

 

“But nothing… You married her, knowing the ties between the two of you, and you married her anyway.  If you couldn’t love her properly, you shouldn’t have married her at all.” She snarled, glowering up at her big brother.  She knew it wasn’t their fault that they’d fallen in love before knowing who his parents were, but there were worse things than his love being his aunt by blood.  They could have lost the wars and died, they could have been parted, but they’d lived.

 

He wasn’t prepared for this anger from her, but he should have expected it.  Family was everything to Arya, she’d clawed her way through hell just to make it back home to him and Sansa before the war.  Now here he was, torn between love and fear over the babe that grew in his wife’s belly.  He could see the disappointment on her face.  To her, pushing away his love and their child was unthinkable. What wolf could do that to their mate? To their pup? What kind of wolf, what kind of _man_ was he if he didn’t love them?  She jabbed his chest with her finger, taking a step closer to him, the gesture almost threatening as she advanced, teeth still bared in a wolfish snarl. 

 

“And if _you_ of all people can’t love that babe, your _son_ or _daughter_ , because of the nature of their birth, then you’re a hypocrite.” Jon bowed his head at her accusatory words, unable to take the burn of her icy stare any longer.  She was right.  He’d lived his whole life as a bastard, judged and disregarded and derided.  His own child deserved no such scorn, especially not from their own father.  Arya stepped away from him, but he didn’t meet her gaze.  He wasn’t ready to face the disappointment there. 

 

“Make up your mind, brother.” She barked, turning away from him and leaving the Godswood with silent footsteps, disappearing into the trees.  When he looked up, he was alone again in the forest, left with only the weeping Weirwood tree for company. Arya’s words rung in his head and he leaned against the tree, begging the gods he wasn’t sure even existed for answers he wasn’t sure they even had. 

 

They’d not been raised as family, there were no social norms like that between them, the way the Lannisters or even other Targaryens had been.  Not even as cousins, like some Starks who had married their own family in generations past.  The families had always done what was deemed necessary to preserve the family name and bloodline, and there had been no mad Starks.  Joffrey had been the only truly mad Lannister, but there was no way to know if his cruelty came from his parents or simply from within him.

 

He knew no child of his and Dany’s would be cruel and bitter, they weren’t the type to allow that kind of behavior from a child.  The boy King had been spoiled and entitled, knowing his whole life that a crown would someday sit on his brow.  He’d make sure that the heir to the Six Kingdoms was good and kind and caring as all good rulers should be. He could imagine chasing a little violet eyed boy or girl around the Weirwood tree in the royal gardens or teaching them to read the histories of the Six Kingdoms and the North. 

 

What was it that he feared? Not the judgement of the people, they’d been told the stories of his birth and had readily accepted the two Targaryens as their rulers.  It didn’t matter to the common folk.  The Lords and Ladies of Westeros didn’t seem to care, even less so than the little they had really cared about the Mad Queen and her brother. There had been no protests against their claim to the throne.  It didn’t matter to his sisters.  Sansa was Queen in the North now and had even finally started being friendly towards Daenerys for it.  She’d got her freedom, and now had brought the dragon into her pack.  Arya clearly didn’t care, so why did he?

 

Why was he so scared of opening himself to the woman he loved? Was he scared their children would be monsters? The darkness in Daenerys had not proved to be her true nature, and he was sure with love and devotion, they would raise good young princes and princesses.  No, he was not scared their children would be monsters.  He had no judgement to fear from the people or his family. They had already accepted things for the way they were.  He was not scared of judgement. 

 

He closed his eyes, bracing himself against the trunk of the Weirwood tree as he stood in the silence of the forest.  Snow began to fall again, the sky had been threatening it since dawn, and winter was making good on its promise.  When he closed his eyes, he could see it all around him, the death and pain and war.  He could see Kings Landing.  He could see the Battle for the Dawn.  He could see The Battle of the Bastards on the fields of Winterfell. He could see Hardhome.  All he could see was death.  He still felt its cold breath on the back of his neck, its hands grasping at his skin, its dark gaze lurking from the shadows. 

 

He’d been at war for so long, he couldn’t get comfortable in this peace.  He was terrified for the next war, the one that would tear everything away from him.  He’d been sick with worry each time Daenerys had put herself in harms way.  Each time she’d taken flight in the wars against the Night King and Cersei was another time she could have been taken from him.  That fear tore at his chest.  It was easier to push her away than love her when that fear came rushing up to overwhelm him. 

 

If he didn’t let himself love her, that fear that pressed in the back of his mind wasn’t so overwhelming.  Even when he held her in his arms at night, his dreams were nightmares, of the things that might have gone wrong, of the ways he could have lost her.  Their blood had been an excellent excuse to keep her at arm’s length, to not let himself love her so that fear didn’t overwhelm him when she was away from his side. It had just made it harder though.  He’d been tormenting them both over his fear of losing her.

 

He pressed his face into his hands, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to force away the images of the battlefield.  He opened his eyes, looking around the Godswood clearing.  He didn’t realize now that his chest was heaving as though he’d been running, and his gloves were damp with his own tears from where he’d wiped at his eyes.  As he looked around the Godswood in the light of day, under the falling snow, clean and quiet, he felt his breathing start to calm.  There was no war anymore.  There was no one coming for them, no one trying to wrench away their delicately wrought happiness.  He didn’t need to be afraid of someone tearing it from his grasp.

 

Suddenly it felt like a ton of stone dropped on his chest, and he placed his hands on the trunk of the Weirwood to steady himself.  Daenerys was with child, their child.  A babe.  He was going to be a father.  His knees almost buckled, and suddenly he felt like he needed to run to her. He needed to hold her in his arms and kiss her and show her how much this filled him with joy, even if there was still that whisper of fear in the back of his mind. He loved her, he loved them.  Nothing else mattered anymore.  

 

He stumbled from the Godswood, almost feeling like he was half drunk as he made his way through the castle towards their chambers.  He didn’t know where else to look for her.   He paused at the door, pushing it open to step quietly into their chambers.  She sat by the fire, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, one hand buried in Ghost’s scruff as he sat at her side, guarding her.  She turned to look at him when she heard the door close, tear tracks staining her face. 

 

“Dany…” He breathed, his brows furrowing with regret at the pain on her face. He moved towards her and she stood, standing together before the warmth of the fireplace.  He reached out his hands to her, and with some small hesitation she placed her hands in his, looking up at him with slightly puffy eyes in the light of the fire.  He squeezed her hands gently, reaching up with one to cup her cheek, caressing his thumb gently over the curve of her cheekbone. 

 

“I’ve been cruel to you, and I’m sorry… you deserve better than I’ve been giving you.” He murmured, feeling her lean her cheek into his touch, fresh tears springing to her eyes as she looked at him. He hated that he was the cause for those tears.

 

“Jon…” She whispered his name sadly, pain clearly written across her face.  He’d let his own stupid fear hurt her, hurt them both.  He could have spared them both so much pain if he’d confronted what had been holding him back months prior. He reached up to cup her other cheek, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. She wrapped her hands around his wrists, closing her eyes slightly as they stood so close together, a couple fresh tears rolling down her cheeks unbidden. 

 

“I love you, and I love our babe… I promise to be better…” he murmured, wiping the tears from her face he stood with her.  She opened her eyes, looking up at him, her bottom lip trembling slightly.

 

“You’re not upset anymore?”  She whispered, squeezing his wrists slightly.  He let out a sigh, shaking his head slightly. He’d never been upset, not truly, just confused.  He met her violet gaze, caressing her cheek gently with his thumb.

 

“I just… I needed to make a choice.  I was… I was trapped in the wars, worried about what might have been… so scared of losing you.  It was easier to push you away then to admit how much I love you.  If I kept you away, the fear of losing you wasn’t as bad, but I’ve only hurt us both.  Forgive me?” he begged, closing his eyes for a moment as he leaned his head down against hers.  She let go of his wrists, and he could feel her arms wrap around his neck.  He let go of her face when she pulled him into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around her waist as he pressed her close to his chest. He could feel her warm breath on his cheek as she burrowed her face into his cloak, and his heart raced at her whispered word. 

 

“Always…” She said it softly, but she meant it.  They hugged tightly for a long moment before Dany pulled back, wiping her face from the tears that lingered on her cheeks.  Strange how quickly tears of sorrow could turn to tears of joy.  She smiled now as she looked up at her husband, who gazed back at her with the same reverence.  Jon relaxed his hold on her somewhat, letting his hands come to rest at her hips, one sliding forward to rub affectionately across her belly.  It was early days, and it was too early to truly tell with her thick fur lined dress, but Dany still smiled at the gesture. 

 

“I’m going to be a father…” He muttered quietly, smiling down at his wife as he held her close in the glow of the fireplace. 

 

“Yes, you are…” She said, a smile settling across her own face as she leaned up to kiss him, pleased to find no hesitation from him as he returned her kiss deeply.  Jon let out a sigh against her lips as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling back from her kiss only to grin down at her like a fool.  Dany smiled up at him, leaning against his chest as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

 

“Do you want a son or a daughter?” she prodded, curling a lock of his black hair around one of her fingers.  Jon hadn’t even considered a preference. He knew Kings were supposed to want sons who would rule after them, but he’d never seen the point of only son’s being in line for the throne.  They’d changed the laws of inheritance for that very reason, so the title would pass to the first born, not just the first-born son.  He’d love a son, to teach sword fighting and archery, to show how to sit a horse.  He’d also love a daughter, and he’d love every minute of teaching her the same things, if she wanted them.  No girl of his was going to be made into a lady if she didn’t want to be.  He ran his fingers through Daenerys’s hair gently, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

 

“I just want a healthy babe, doesn’t matter to me” he said, smiling down at her.  Her smile broadened and she leaned up to kiss him tenderly, nuzzling the tip of her nose against his as she leaned up on her toes to do so.

 

“Good, me too…” Prince or Princess, dragon or wolf, it didn’t matter.  All that mattered was that they stuck together through it all.  The King and Queen.  The Wolf and the Dragon.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think its safe to say that quite a few people in Westeros probably have some PTSD. Jon's been through many wars, he's fought and lost and I can see him being afraid of opening himself to the pain of losing again, even at the expense of his love. It just took some time and a motivating force for him to confront the source of his fear and decide to move past it with Dany.


	56. Part of the Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Gendry receives an unusual visitor in the forge

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

The news of Daenerys’s condition had not stayed a secret for long.  Within a day or two, whispers of it had spread around the castle like wildfire.  Gendry was surprised to hear the news, not from Arya, but from one of the other smiths around the forge.  When he’d asked his she-wolf about it, she’d just simply shrugged and said that it wasn’t her secret to tell.  He couldn’t blame her.  If anything, Arya was good at keeping secrets. She’d kept the secret of her brother’s parentage for weeks before it had become public knowledge, even from him.  He shouldn’t really have been surprised when she hadn’t told him even though she’d known.

 

The Dragon Queen’s condition had caused their plans to be changed ever so slightly. The Queen still couldn’t hold down her breakfast, and so they were building a carriage for her so that she wouldn’t have to ride horseback all the way back to King’s Landing.  She’d protested, but a few tender words from Jon about how he worried for her and the babe smoothed away her misgivings.  Things had changed significantly between the monarchs in the past two weeks.  Ghost clung to Daenerys’s side like a shadow, and Jon himself was never very far away.  Things had still been a little tense between them after the wedding, but the reservation that had been left in the King was gone now.  The wolf was simply overjoyed that his pack was growing now. 

 

It hadn’t taken long for Arya to start to get annoyed at her brother and their Queen.  As the news spread through the castle, every whisper was about the Dragon Queen and her babe.  At first, the constant drivel about babies and pregnancy and childbirth had bored Arya to tears.  Then she realized that now Daenerys was the center of attention, she could go back to sneaking around the castle with less supervision.  She’d taken to sneaking from their chambers when the torches were low, only to return from the kitchens with some ill-gotten prize for them, like a honey cake or fresh cheese. 

 

Gendry found himself never wanting to leave Winterfell.  He knew there was a whole castle for him to run back in Storm’s End, but he liked this one.  He liked the gray stone walls and the direwolves carved into the pillars and rocks.  He liked the warmth of the forge and the wonderful softness of the feather bed he shared at night with Arya.  He liked the easy routine they’d all settled into in the last few weeks. 

 

Arya would wake with the dawn, slip from his arms to go do her sparring in the yard, and then come climbing back into bed nearly an hour and a half later to pepper him with kisses until he reluctantly woke, though he never complained about her kisses. They’d join her siblings for breakfast in the mornings.  Arya would wolf down her food as though she hadn’t eaten in days, Sansa and Jon would nibble slowly at their own plates as they discussed politics and future trade, and Daenerys would sip at her ginger and mint tea through the morning.  

 

The events of the day varied, but even then, they had a familiar pattern.  Arya would either disappear into the castle to spend some time on her own and he would go to the forge, or she’d whisk him away on some new adventure.  Some days she took him riding, and they flew at breakneck speed down the road as snow and ice whipped at their cheeks.  Some days they went on foot through the forest.  She knew he had no love of big game hunting, but he’d been fascinated with traps and snare hunting.  They’d spent hours in the forests, setting snares and walking the paths. She’d not said anything when he’d released the first rabbit caught by one of his snares, only smiled slightly.  The kitchens at Winterfell were well stocked.  That rabbit didn’t need to die that day.

 

On the days when Arya needed space and didn’t whisk him away for an adventure, he passed his hours working in the forge.  He had been surprised when shortly after his wedding, some of the Northern Lords had appeared in his forge, inquiring about weapons.  Apparently, they’d been watching Arya train as well, and Stormbreaker had caught a few eyes.  Lord Hornwood had come to him asking for a greatsword.  While not Gendry’s specialty, he could forge a masterful greatsword given enough steel.  He’d tried to refuse the pouch of gold dragons that Lord Hornwood had pushed into his hands, but the Northern Lord had insisted he take payment for his work. 

 

For several days, when Arya wasn’t hell bent on distracting him, he worked on only the sword.  He had time to work and rework and refine, now that there were no more wars on the horizon.  He quenched the massive blade for the final time, the hiss of steam filling the forge as he worked.  He was used to seeing figures emerge from the mist in his forge, but usually that figure was smaller with dark hair, not tall and lithesome with hair like fire.  Much to his surprise, the Queen in the North stood in his forge now, her hands clasped in front of her as she surveyed his work. 

 

“Don’t tell me that’s for Arya too… I think its almost as long a she is tall…” The redhead teased, stepping forward into Gendry’s work area, her bright Tully blue eyes raking over the sword he had just finished. 

 

“Nah, its for Lord Hornwood… said their family sword was lost and wanted me to forge him a new one…” He said, grabbing a rag and starting to wipe down the blade.  The steel was still warm to the touch, but not hot.  It needed to cool and then it could be polished and sharpened.  He still needed to carve the moose head for the pommel out of the large chunk of black walnut he’d bought for the piece.  It had cost him one of the gold dragons Lord Hornwood had paid with, but if he was going to do the job, he was going to do it properly, and a family greatsword deserved a fine pommel.  Sansa huffed out an annoyed breath as she regarded the young Lord of Storms End.

 

“Gendry, you do realize you’re a Lord.  You don’t have to take orders from them.  He had no right to command you to forge him a sword” Sansa snapped, frowning at the blacksmith.  He looked up at her, raising a brow at the red she-wolf. 

 

“He didn’t command me, Queen Sansa.  He asked politely, and he paid me well” he said, shrugging slightly as he looked at the Queen in the North.  Sansa visibly deflated from her puffed up posture, letting out a small sigh. 

 

“Forgive me… I jumped to conclusions.” She confessed, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked around the smithy.  It was old and covered in soot.  You could see where they had repaired some beams and parts of the roof, since the wood wasn’t black with ash yet.  The fresh wood of the beams stood out as obvious repairs.  The men who moved through the smithy were dirty and gruff, and yet they were warm in their own way.  Gendry was the youngest by far, yet the other smiths treated him with respect.  They had respected him even before he’d been named Baratheon.  In fact, they teased him for it now, much like Arya did. 

 

“So, you truly like working here?” Sansa asked, fixing her gaze back on the young blacksmith.  Gendry smiled a little, looking around the work area.  He was definitely going to miss it here; this was the finest forge he’d ever worked in.  If there wasn’t a good forge at Storms End, he’d have one built, just so he could pound away the stresses of the day into a piece of steel. 

 

“Aye…” He said quietly, smiling just a little to himself as he wiped down the greatsword slowly. Sansa furrowed her brow, examining him, tilting her head to the side as she watched him. 

 

“But you don’t _have_ to smith anymore… you could do whatever you like, even if that’s nothing” she offered, narrowing her eyes at the smith.  None of the Lords she’d ever met would willingly spend their hours doing hard labor.  She knew he hadn’t been raised a Lord, but surely a man who had needed to work hard all his life just to get by would want to rest now that he could. Gendry set the blade down on his workbench, wiping his hands on the rag before he set it to the side, fixing his bright blue eyes on the Queen in the North.

 

“Do you sew because you have to, or because you love the art of it? I saw the wolves you stitched into Arya’s dress, and the stags onto my cloak. They must have taken you hours and hours. Was it because you had to, or because you wanted to?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest, raising a brow at the redhead.  She raised her brows at his question, lifting her chin as she decided on a response. 

 

“I wanted to…” she confessed, a small smile curling across her face as she met Gendry’s eyes.  She understood now.  When she looked at the blade that lay on his workbench, she knew it was the same calling to create that pulled them both to their endeavors.  She loved to work until her tiny stitches had captured the likeness of Nymeria or Ghost, or any number of other creatures. 

 

“That’s why I still work in the forge…” He answered with a smile, their blue eyes meeting again.  He didn’t often speak alone with the Queen in the North.  They’d never really had much to speak about, other than battle plans and politics.  He wasn’t generally a fan of those kinds of conversations, and as such had rarely spoken to Sansa alone like this.  She smiled back at him, letting out another soft sigh.

 

“Storm’s End isn’t going to know what to do with the pair of you” she said, shaking her head at him.  A broad smile curled over Gendry’s face, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at her words.  He knew it was just a joke, but she was probably right.  He was not your standard Lord, and Arya was definitely not a standard Lady

 

“I should hope not; Arya would hate to be predictable” He joked back, tucking his hands into the pockets of his apron as he watched the Queen in the North.  She chuckled quietly, uncrossing her arms as she regarded the blacksmith.  She looked him over from head to toe, from his boots to his soot stained shirt.  When he was dressed in fine leathers, he looked the part of a Lord, but she always noticed the faint discomfort on his face.  Now in just simple shirt and trousers, he was at ease.  It was going to take a lot of getting used to for the young Lord when he finally did make it to Storms End.  She turned away from him, walking around his workbench to stand near the glowing embers of the forge.  Even she got cold sometimes in the north, especially now that winter was well and truly here.  Silence hung between them for a long moment before Gendry stepped around his workbench to stand beside the Queen.  Now that he’d stopped working the steel, the chill of winter had started to nip at him as well. 

 

“You know, I was shocked at first when I found you two, wrapped up in her bed after the Battle for the Dawn… She swore to all the gods a hundred times that she’d never fall in love…” Sansa said, breaking the silence between them, looking over at Gendry in the warm glow of the forge.  He smiled, eyes crinkling as her words brought up fond memories of their months on the road together.  He remembered teasing her one day that someday she’d be someone’s Lady love and how she’d chased him around with a stick for nearly a half hour for the offense, bellowing all the while about how she’d never _ever_ fall in love.

 

“Aye, she told me that a lot too when we were younger…” he said with a chuckle, extending his hands towards the embers, rubbing them together in the warmth.  It was his fingers that started to get cold first when he did finally put down the hammer.  

 

“I can see why she chose you though…” Sansa said, raising one finely arched brow at the blacksmith.  Gendry looked back at her, rising his own brow in return. He’d definitely started doing that more since his reunion with Arya.  He’d started to pick up tiny things from her the longer they were together again, and her habit of raising that one questioning brow instead of speaking had definitely rubbed off on him. 

 

“Don’t give me that look…You’re kind, and honest, and loyal, and occasionally even a little bit funny… You accept people as they are, no matter the rank of their birth or lack thereof…” Sansa said, rolling her eyes at him, though she smiled all the same.  It almost sounded like the Queen in the North was a little bit impressed with him.  He simply shrugged again, letting out a sigh as they stood by the warmth of the embers.

 

“Well I was a bastard all my life… would have been pretty rude of me to be judging the nature of other people’s births” he said, giving her a wry smile.  She chuckled softly, letting out a sigh as she gazed at the glowing coals.

 

“Fair point…” She said, glancing at the blacksmith out of the corner of her eye, her face still turned towards the warmth of the forge. 

 

“All her life people have been trying to change her, to make her something she’s not, especially me… I’m glad she found someone who loves her without needing to change her” Gendry could feel that she was watching him, waiting for his reaction to her words.  He just let a fond smile cross his face as he thought about his she-wolf.

 

“When it comes to Arya, I wouldn’t change a thing” he said, looking back at Sansa. It was the truth, he loved that woman exactly the way she was, scars and all.  Even though he regretted the years they spent apart, time had shaped them into the people they were that day.  He could only be glad that fate had let their paths cross once more, and now finally become one. 

 

“Good, she’d probably stab you if you tried” Sansa teased, a broad smile cracking over her face as they shared in their laughter.  A joke, and yet neither could truly be certain that Arya wouldn’t do it.  After all, throwing knives was an acceptable form of flirting to Arya.  Gendry doubted that he’d make it through his life without at least one or two gentle stabbings from his loving wife. Sansa turned away from the forge, letting the warmth hit her back now as she looked out over the work area.  Gendry turned as well, enjoying the heat on his back through his thin shirt.  If he wasn’t going to smith anymore, he might as well put on his cloak so he didn’t get a chill. 

 

“I’m going to miss you both… The castle feels emptier when you’re all gone…” Sansa’s words broke the silence once more, but they were quiet and sad.  The Queen in the North didn’t often allow others to see her in moments of vulnerability, but Gendry was part of the family now.  It wasn’t weakness to confide in family.  Gendry sighed slightly, looking around the smithy, that familiar ache of homesickness tugging at him.  Even though he was still there, he knew he’d have to be leaving, and he had already started missing this place. 

 

“I love it here… part of me wishes we could stay forever” he confessed quietly, looking back at the redhead as they warmed their backs by the forge.  Sansa sighed and she looked over at him, a sad smile crossing her face. 

 

“You have a castle of your own to get back to though” she said, studying the young Lord.  Gendry frowned, looking down at his boots as he folded his arms across his chest, feeling suddenly defensive.  It was looming in the future, the weight of Storms End.  Every day it grew closer, and every day he felt less confident that he could do it, despite encouragement from Arya when he’d voiced these fears.

 

“I’m not ready to be a Lord, I have no idea how to even begin” He said bitterly, glowering down at his shoes as he scuffed them in the gravel of the forge floor.  Sansa turned towards him, reaching up to rest her hand on his arm lightly.  He almost jumped, looking up at her now, the scowl gone from his face.  He wasn’t sure she’d really ever touched him before.  The look on her face was kind though, and the unsure smile from the redhead smoothed the anger in his brow.

 

“…do you want me to give you some lessons?  I can show you how to manage the ledgers and keep up with grain stores and other such things…” she offered, squeezing his forearm gently.  Arya would be plenty of help when it came to reforming laws and overseeing patrols, but her sister didn’t know how to run a castle.  Sure, Ser Davos would be there to help, but she didn’t want Gendry to have to turn to the man for everything.  Her smile faltered when the blacksmith sighed, looking away from her. 

 

“Won’t be any use to show me ledgers I can’t read…” he said, shrugging a bit, feeling his face flush with shame as he finally admitted it to her.  Arya had read out Ser Davos’s letter to him several times, but he still couldn’t piece the letters together well enough to match the words to her voice.  Sansa squeezed his arm again, drawing his gaze back to her.  There wasn’t any judgement in her eyes, just a warm smile on her face as she looked at her brother-in-law. 

 

“Then we can start there… Will you meet me in the library tomorrow after breakfast?” She asked, tilting her head at him.  A small smile broke out over Gendry’s face and he nodded, uncrossing his arms to just clasp his hands in front of him.  He didn’t feel quite so defensive anymore. 

 

“I’d like that… Thank you Sansa” He said, the smile on the redhead’s face broadening.  She let out a contented sigh, drawing her cloak closer around her shoulders as she turned to look at him. 

 

“You’re part of the pack now, Gendry.  We’ll always help each other when we can.  The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” She said, nodding to him before she stepped away, taking her leave of the forge.  Gendry watched her go, a smile still lingering on his face as he pulled his cloak from its hook on the forge to wrap it around his shoulders, pressing his face into the fur collar to stave off the chill as dusk started to settle around the forge.

 

That night at supper, things were ever so slightly different.  Arya had her siblings and Dany enthralled in one of the stories of a warrior queen that she loved so much as they sat at the grand table.  The night went on mostly as usual, except for the increased conversation between him and Sansa.  The Queen in the North had even teased him once in front of the others. Gendry’s chest felt tight with emotion as he looked around the table.  It had taken some weeks, but finally, there was ease within the pack.  He’d never imagined the whole Stark pack might include him, but he wouldn’t trade this family of his for anything in the world.

 

 

 


	57. Brooding in the Godswood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya/Jon
> 
> Arya finds that she enjoys no longer being the center of attention at Winterfell anymore.

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Arya enjoyed sneaking around the castle.  She loved pressing herself into the shadows to disappear, loved gathering the whispers and snippets of conversation that people muttered to each other when they thought no one was listening.  She was so glad to finally find that the subject of everyone’s whispers had turned from the bringer of the dawn.  The castle whispered of Queen Daenerys’s condition.  It whispered about the Queen in the North, and when she would start courting a husband.  It whispered about the chill of winter settling in.  It whispered about the hard times to come. It didn’t whisper about Arya Stark anymore. 

 

She was shadowing Sansa that day.  It had grown harder to follow her sister around now that she was Queen in the North.  Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick kept a watchful eye over her sister.  The two knights sometimes stifled her sweet sister, and sometimes Sansa would dismiss Brienne to the training yard or to oversee some other function of the castle guard.  She’d walk the castle halls, trailed by Ser Podrick a few paces behind, and then by Arya, several paces behind, clinging to the shadows.

 

She followed her sister to the library that morning, watching with surprise from the top of a bookshelf as her Lady sister taught her new Lord husband how to read, one letter at a time.  The pair of them sat close together, hunched over the raven scroll that Davos had sent for their wedding.  Gendry was determined to read that letter first.  She didn’t know how long this tutoring had been going on, but the blacksmith was making good progress. He stumbled over the words, sound by sound, but after an hour of work he was making most of them out clearly, and Sansa had him starting on lines from an easy book.  Those he still struggled with. 

 

She’d been surprised at the fond hug her proper sister had given her smith when they parted ways, Gendry heading from the library, likely to the forge.  She wasn’t sure when the two of them had started to grow close, but she certainly didn’t mind it.  If she was going to drag her Lord husband up here for a few months every year or so, it would be good for them to get along.  She’d slipped quietly from the top of the bookshelf, trailing her sister and her knight through the halls of the castle that led out into the Godswood.

 

Sansa wove through the trees towards the great Weirwood tree, not surprised to find her black-haired brother in his usual brooding spot beneath the red leaves.  The boughs of the Weirwood were bowed, weighted down with snow.  It had snowed for the last several days, and nearly a food of fresh snow laid on the ground and the trees.  The branches were almost curved into a shelter under which he stood, facing the carved face. 

 

“Brooding in the Godswood again, brother?” The redhead queried, her presence giving her brother a small start as she broke the silence of the forest. 

 

“The Weirwood tree in Kings Landing just doesn’t compare…” Jon said, running his hand over the white bark as he looked from his sister back to the tree.  He’d tried brooding in Kings Landing, but there just wasn’t the right place for him to do it.  At least he could brood in the throne room upon his golden chair, but that was a very public place to brood.  The Godswood was a nice quiet place to brood, usually without interruptions. 

 

“What’s on your mind?” The Queen in the North asked of the King in the South, studying her brother as they stood in the snow.  She had seen the way his brow furrowed, and she could tell something was bothering him.  Jon took a moment to search for his words, looking back at his fair sister with concern on his face. 

 

“Winter is here, and the North faces the greatest hardship in these times.  I worry for those that remain, that this may be a long winter you must face…” He said, trailing off as his dark brown gaze met blue.  A look of worry crossed the Queen in the North’s face as he spoke, the redhead drawing her cloak closer around her shoulders as though the warmth of the fur could stave off the cold for the whole of the north. 

 

“As do I… our gold is drained from repairs to the castle, not to mention what we spent on food while the army was here… There’s not even enough grain for a year left…” she confessed, pain flashing across her face.  She’d argued and fought and suffered for the independence of the North, and now her kingdom was faltering already.  Feeding the Dothraki horde and the Unsullied armies had decimated their stores, even after she’d gathered as much as she could from the other lords of the North.  Jon clasped his hands together, rubbing his black gloves across each other as he thought, frowning at the face on the Weirwood tree for a long moment before he spoke. 

 

“…Much of the previous harvest from Highgarden was destroyed, but we’ll send as much as we can spare…” Dany herself had destroyed wagon upon wagon of supplies when Cersei had sacked Highgarden.  Yet the winter winds didn’t seem to reach the plains of Highgarden, and the new crop of wheat was already being grown by the farmers who tended the lands there.  Even in winter, the south rarely went hungry the way the North did.  When their fields were iced over and snows piled high around the castle and the villages, their only source of food would be what they could hunt and what they could bring in through White Harbor.  Sansa only frowned and sighed in response.

 

“Jon, how can we claim to be an independent North when we have to receive grain from you?” she grumbled, folding her arms over her chest as she looked at the southern King.  They weren’t an independent Kingdom if the south was still feeding them.  Jon looked back at his sister, giving her a small smile.

 

“The North has to buy its grain somewhere; the Southern Crown is just giving the North a very generous price…” He said, that icy scowl melting from Sansa’s face at his words, the red wolf uncrossing her arms and letting her shoulders relax.  The debt owed to the Iron Bank had been canceled with the death of Cersei.  There wasn’t much gold left that belonged to the crown in the south, but they could still afford to sell their sister Kingdom grain at a steep discount.  Jon reached out, taking one of Sansa’s gloved hands in his own, squeezing gently as he looked at his red-haired sister.

 

“They’re still my people, in my heart… I won’t see anyone on this continent go hungry if I can help it…” He said, giving her an almost sad smile.  He knew the northmen would never accept him again, not now that he was a Targaryen, but he still loved the North more than any place in this world. Sansa squeezed his hand back gently, letting out a sigh as they stood in the quiet of the Godswood.  Silence lingered between them for a long moment as Arya watched her siblings from her hiding place behind a tree. Finally, it was broken once more by her sister, the red wolf smiling at their brother as she squeezed his hand once more. 

 

“Do you think you could convince the Dornish to send us some lemons?” She asked softly, a broad smile cracking over Jon’s face as he let out a chuckle at her words.  The lemon tree in the glass garden would likely not fruit again until winter passed, and he knew how much Sansa loved her lemon cakes. 

 

“I think that could be arranged” He said, giving her hand a final squeeze before releasing it, the two monarchs exchanging smiles. They didn’t need to worry every minute, though as of late it seemed like most of the conversations they had were about running their respective countries.  The peace of the Godswood was broken when a snowball came whizzing from behind a tree, only to strike Sansa squarely in the shoulder.  Jon almost reached for his sword at the sudden motion, only to be struck upside the head with another clump of snow, the broken chunks of snow already starting to melt into his hair.

 

“ ** _Arya!_** ”

 

At the exasperated tone in her sister’s voice, Arya couldn’t help but chuckle to herself, scooping up another handful of snow and packing it into a careful ball before she popped out from behind her tree to lob it at her siblings.  She was more surprised to have a snowball whip past her own head as her red-headed sister returned fire.  Jon seemed slightly bewildered at first, the snow still melting on the side of his head for a long moment before he started scooping up snow with his hands, starting to fire back at his brown-haired sister.

 

“Two against one?  How is that fair?” Arya called from behind her tree as their snowballs burst against the trunk of the tree, rolling another one in her hands even as she hid under her cover.

 

“Your aim is better, little wolf” Jon called, ducking behind a snowbank after he whipped another snowball at his little sister, a broad grin plastered across his face.  Arya leaned out from behind her tree, managing to get a good strike in on her brother, her snowball colliding with his shoulder even as he tried to shelter behind the bank.  It wasn’t without its consequences though, as Sansa’s next snowball collided squarely with the side of her head, getting snow all over her face. 

 

Arya couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from her chest and tumbled from her lips as she returned fire back at her siblings.  Soon she’d left her position of safety behind the tree, scooping up handfuls of snow as she ran across the clearing, trying and failing to dodge the snowballs that came from her siblings.  A squeal of laughter rang from the lips of her sister as one of the snowballs managed to hit her squarely in the back of the head. 

 

They’d had snow fights as children when the summer snows had left enough on the ground for them to make snowballs with, but these were winter snows, they had enough ammunition to last for days.  They were all pink faced and breathless as they ran around the Godswood, ducking behind trees and trying their best to throw their snowballs before they got hit in return.  Suddenly they weren’t highborn rulers, they were just children again, running and playing in the snows around their family home.

 

When they were all properly soaked with snow and tired from their ‘war’, they all sunk down on a fallen log to catch their breath, Arya taking up the seat between her two royal siblings.  Sansa wasn’t usually one for such roughhousing, but even the Queen in the North could keep the grin from her face as she sat with her siblings on the damp log.  Her normally neat red locks were askew and slightly tangled from the melting snow.  Arya’s hair was wild, as always, and even Jon’s had fallen loose from the knot at the back of his head that kept his hair out of his face. 

 

“What was all this for then?” Jon said, wrapping one arm around Arya’s shoulder as they caught their breath.  Arya smiled back at her brother, letting out a soft sigh as she looked between her siblings. 

 

“All you two have talked about since we got to the North has been work and worry… I wanted to see you both truly smile before we all have to part ways again…” She confessed, earning a smile from her sister as Sansa reached out to grasp one of her gloved hands, squeezing gently. 

 

“You know its not goodbye when you leave” the red wolf said, a hint of sadness tinging the Queen in the North’s smile as she looked at her little sister. Arya sighed, squeezing Sansa’s hand back gently, looking between her and Jon.  These past weeks in Winterfell had been some of the happiest that she’d known, but they were leaving in a few days’ time, and Arya wasn’t sure when she’d be coming back. 

 

“I know… many moons will pass before we three are together again though… We have enough sad memories to last us all a lifetime.  I wanted some nice memories too” she confessed softly.  Jon squeezed around her shoulders gently, leaning over to press a fond kiss to her forehead, smiling down at the young Lady of Storms End.  She’d grown so much since they’d been children running around this castle under their father’s watchful eye, and yet he could still see that little girl who loved nothing more than her family underneath the woman that Arya had grown up to be.  She’d been tough and cool when she’d first returned to Winterfell, but something in the castle and in her blacksmith had brought back the Arya Stark that had been hidden underneath No One for so many years. 

 

“I’d say you succeeded on that front, little sister” Jon teased, a chuckle falling from Arya’s lips as she smiled back at her brother.  At least King’s Landing was only a week’s ride from Storms End.  She’d have to make the trip to see her brother often.  Duty might keep them apart for a time, but the pack would always come back together eventually.  Sansa, let out a sigh, looking around the clearing as snow started to fall around them, sifting through the trees. 

 

“Come, lets go get dried off before we all freeze…” She said, letting go of Arya’s hand only to curl their arms together.  Arya smiled broadly at her sister, happily taking her arm as they stood, the pair of she-wolves starting to head back towards the castle with Jon on their heels.  The Stark wolves of Winterfell so rarely had the chance to cut loose and play, and it had taken the youngest of them to remind the older ones that there was more to life than worrying about the affairs of a Kingdom.  As the three wolves made their way back into the castle, the snow that fell in the Godswood started to obscure the evidence of their great battle.  Soft flakes smoothed over the footprints and divot where they had scooped up snow to make their snowballs.  Now the only proof left was their snow-soaked hair and the smiles that still lingered on their faces as they headed back into the castle together. 

 

 

 


	58. Those Long Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> She knows it will be a long time before she can return to Winterfell, so Arya says goodbye

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Time slipped away effortlessly in the halls of Winterfell.  It was easy to forget that they had only extended their stay so that a wheeled coach could be build for Daenerys’s ride south.  Now the coach was finished, and their final night in the castle was looming before them.  Daenerys seemed eager to return to the warmth of the south, but Arya could feel that painful hook in the back of her stomach that pulled her to the castle. Just the idea of leaving weeks before had left a bitter taste in her mouth, now that they were riding out in the morning, that tugging pain in her stomach had moved to her heart.  Even though duty called her away, she never wanted to leave.

 

Sansa had insisted on throwing one last feast, one last night to celebrate before they parted ways again.  Arya didn’t feel like attending a feast though.  She didn’t feel like celebrating their departure, even if it really was just once last chance for them all to cut loose and drink a little too much and enjoy each other’s company.  The tension had eased between Jon and Dany, and Sansa had warmed significantly to everyone.  They’d come to an easy camaraderie amongst themselves, the Starks and their newly expanded pack.  Arya just wasn’t feeling the mirth that echoed around the great hall that night.

 

Jon and Gendry had been caught up discussing the greatsword that the smith had forged for Lord Hornwood.  While they joked over steel and leather and jokes about hammering things, Sansa and Daenerys were absorbed in their own conversation about the Queen in the South’s condition.  Children and motherhood were always part of the painting of happiness Sansa had drawn in her mind as a little girl, and now she had a chance to talk baby names and tiny toes with her sister-in-law.  Surrounded by all those words, Arya sat quietly poking at her dinner, Nymeria resting her brown and white head on her boots, waiting for the occasional scrap of meat that Arya would drop down for her. 

 

Arya sipped sullenly at her wine, finishing two full goblets when she had hardly touched her supper.  She just wasn’t hungry, but the muddling effects of the wine were a welcome distraction.  Eventually, she stood, leaning down to whisper to her husband that she was stepping out for some air and would come back soon.  He’d been too wrapped up in his conversation with Jon to manage more than a distracted ‘alright’ before she’d slipped from the great hall and out into the night, Nymeria keeping watch over the banquet table in her stead.  She just didn’t want to be there anymore, with all the noise and people.  It was the great hall in her family home, and yet so much of her family was missing.

 

Without even realizing it, her feet led her not to the forge, but to the door that led down to the crypts below the castle.  She lifted a torch from the wall, making her way down the ancient stone steps, into the chill of the deep catacombs.  She’d not stepped food there since she’d first returned to the castle, when Sansa had come to find her after she’d slipped away from the useless guards who had been stationed at the gate.

 

She walked through the stone halls, taking the long way through the tunnels, walking from the oldest graves and statues towards the newer ones.  Some were so old that the chiseled names had long since crumbled away into nothing.  The features of the statues had faded, until you couldn’t make out the details of their faces anymore, not truly.  They were the Starks of old, so old that even their names had faded away.  As she walked slowly down the rows of statues, they started to become newer, the names more familiar.  Eventually she was even able to recall stories of the famous Starks whose tombs she walked past.  Her feet stopped when she was faced with the small statue of her younger brother.  The young boy the mason had carved was much older and taller than Arya had ever known Rickon to be.   They’d carved him with wild hair, and an even more wild looking Shaggy Dog at his side.  She could barely even remember how old he was the last time she’d seen him.  Six, maybe seven.  Her memory didn’t look like the teenage boy whose stone eyes stared back at her unseeing. 

 

Looking at Robb and Grey Wind was just as difficult.  At least her older brother looked more like her memory served.  At least he’d been a man when she’d last seen him.  The face of her mother was familiar too.  No wolf stood at her side, but her stone figure looked every bit the Lady as Arya remembered her being.  They’d captured the discerning stare her mother had always used to wear as she examined her children, but they’d carved her mouth in that gentle smile that would sometimes sneak across her face even when she didn’t mean for it to.  Arya had sometimes seen that smile, followed by a deep scowl, whenever she’d matched up to her brothers in some sport, be it archery or riding or swordplay.  It wasn’t ladylike, but when Arya closed her eyes, she could remember that tiny hidden smile that sometimes came over her mother’s face before she realized that her youngest daughter wasn’t trying very hard to be a good Lady. 

 

Her musing was interrupted by the soft sound of footsteps on the old stones.  She would have expected it to be Jon or Sansa who would have come to the crypt to find her, not Gendry.  Even as he walked towards her, she watched the way he looked at the statues. People tended to feel uncomfortable down here, surrounded by the long dead, that’s why so few dared venture here.  When his gaze did finally settle on her, she could see a smile curl over his lips as he crossed the stones to meet her.  He stepped close, standing at her side before her brother’s Crypt, reaching out ever so slightly to brush his fingers against hers. 

 

“I looked for you in the forge and the Godswood… I had to ask Sansa before I even thought about checking the crypts…” He said softly, looking at the stone face of the young man.  Her brother Robb looked very much how she had described him many years ago when they’d been children.  Another Stark he’d never had the chance to meet.  Arya let her fingers curl through Gendry’s gently as they stood in the darkness, taking a deep breath before finally she spoke. 

 

“You didn’t have to come… you’re missing the feast” Gendry turned his head to look at her, squeezing her hand gently as another smile crossed his lips.  They walked through the darkness, past the crypts of her brothers until they stood before her parents, Arya having led him towards the entrance, as though she was almost trying to shoo him away from the death around them, back up the steps to the world of the living. 

 

“It’s pretty boring without you, and you said you’d be back an hour ago…” he teased softly, though his smile faltered when she didn’t return the gesture.  Arya wasn’t usually prone to moods of melancholy like this, but he’d seen her this way a handful of times before.  Most times had been on the road when they were children, but there had been a night in Kings Landing after the battle where she’d sat in the window for most of the night, just staring out over the burned city, silent tears on her cheeks.

 

“…I wanted to say goodbye to them before we rode south again” The blacksmith let out a sigh at her words.  Of course, leaving had put her in such a mood.  He’d been feeling the black cloud of their departure hanging over him for days, it wasn’t really surprising that Arya felt it too.  He let go of her fingers, stepping around behind her to wrap his arms around her and pull her into his chest.  Her back pressed to his front, and he hugged her tightly, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple as she leaned back into the warmth of his arms.  There was nothing to be done for these moods.  They would pass in time, but at the very least he could hold her, so she didn’t have to be quite so alone. 

 

“I think my father would have liked you… You’re all the things he taught us to be.  Good, kind, loyal…” Arya’s quiet words broke the silence that hung between them, turning her gaze towards the statue of her father.  Gendry turned them both, his blue gaze raking over the carved stone face of Lord Eddard Stark.  Even now, he could see in the stone face many of the things he saw in Arya.  It was no wonder that there had never been a shred of doubt who Arya took after.

 

“I met him once… He came to my shop in the street of steel… He asked about my mother and admired my bull’s head helmet. Didn’t even get mad when I refused to sell it to him.  He didn’t say much, but he was polite to me.  Didn’t glower or look down on me because I was a bastard…” He said, leaning his chin against her head, Arya letting out a sigh, reaching up to grasp his forearms, holding him just as tightly as he was holding her.  Of course, her father would have been polite, he was never anything but honorable.  He’d probably discovered that Gendry had been Robert’s bastard and wanted to see it for himself.  He’d never have let on his purpose though.

 

“He was kind like that…” she said quietly, letting out a sigh as she leaned back into Gendry’s chest, closing her eyes for a long moment, relaxing in the warmth of his arms around her.

 

“Sometimes its hard to remember them… father and mother… I spent so long brooding and memorizing the faces of those I was going to kill; I never took the time to remember the faces of the ones I set out to avenge in the first place…” she whispered, feeling her bottom lip tremble as she clenched her jaw to quash the tears that had started to prick at the corners of her eyes.  Even now, even if she tried her hardest, her mother’s voice didn’t sound quite right in her memory.  Her father’s face was muddled with the poorly carved statue of him.  They were like ghosts, slowly fading away the longer they’d been gone.  If only she hadn’t tried so hard to forget them when she’d been No One.  Maybe then she’d remember what it felt like to have her mother kiss her forehead as she was tucked into bed, or braid her hair, or hug her. 

 

“The statue doesn’t much look like how I remember him…” Gendry’s words snapped her out of that terrible downward spiral her thoughts had taken, and she let herself study his statue once more.  The longer she looked, the more she could see the things that were wrong.  His nose was too large, his brow too furrowed.  He’d always had a kinder face than that.  His eyes had never been harsh like that when he looked upon his family or his people.

 

“No… it doesn’t…” she said quietly, finding herself agreeing with her husband in this instance.  They’d made him far to hard.  Time and battle and the North had made her father a hard man, but they’d failed to capture his heart. He’d loved his people and done right by them always. No, he had never been that hard.  She felt Gendry’s head turn, his chin resting her head as he nodded towards the carved face of her mother. 

 

“What about your mother?  You always said she wouldn’t have approved” He said, squeezing her gently, a sad smile curling over Arya’s face.  She could remember the scolding her mother use to give her, clear as day, even the half-hearted ones that she only gave because she ‘had to’.  She could imagine it now, her mother pacing in front of the great fireplace, hands tugging her hair out of her tight braid as she fussed at Arya for bringing home a blacksmith.  The image almost made her laugh. Almost.

 

“Never in a million years… She would have lost her head if she’d found out I’d taken you into my bed before marriage.  Never mind that she never would have let me wed a blacksmith in the first place…” she said, letting out a soft snort, shaking her head slightly.

 

“Looks just like her though…” She murmured, letting out a sigh as Gendry made an indignant sound, ruffling his nose into her hair, letting out a huff. 

 

“Hey, I’m a Lord now… Isn’t that what she would have wanted?” He fussed, Arya tipping her head up to roll her eyes at him, raising a dark brow as he grinned down at her playfully.  She smiled back at him.  She didn’t often say it, but she appreciated the way he tried to lighten the mood when she got somber sometimes.  He didn’t have as many dark thoughts as she did, and his jokes helped keep her turned towards the light.  She loved him for that. She let out another sigh as she looked back at her mother’s stone face, at that tiny smile on her lips. She probably would have found it in herself to approve of Gendry eventually, especially as Lord of Storms End.  It probably would have taken some time though.  For all her southern blood, her mother had the stubbornness of the North in her.  Arya wasn’t _all_ wolf after all. 

 

“It is… My mother was always difficult to impress… Sansa took after her much more than I did, but I’d like to think she would have wanted me to be happy…” She said, letting out another deep sigh as she leaned back against his chest, enjoying the warmth of him in the chill of the crypt.  Nothing compared to having him close.  The warmth of her cloak just didn’t quite cut it anymore.

 

“And are you happy?” his words were quiet as he whispered them against her hair.  Up until now, she’d seemed very happy, and she’d felt as such.  Even with their looming departure, tonight was the first night it had upset her so.  She’d never expected happiness to be like this, with Gendry at her side, but it really shouldn’t have been so surprising.  Even though life had been hard, and they’d seen terrible things, when she thought about their time together as children, those memories were ones that brought her happiness.  It shouldn’t have surprised her that happiness still meant her days with Gendry at her side. 

 

“Yes, but…I don’t want to leave…” She couldn’t help that Winterfell called to her heart, just as strongly as he did.  The years away had been filled with so much pain, and the best of all her memories had been made here, with her family as a child, and with Gendry as a young woman.  She knew its halls as well as the scars on the backs of her hands, knew all the little things that made the castle special.  She knew its secrets and its history.  Winterfell would always be a part of her, just the way she would always be a Stark, even now that she’d married a Baratheon. 

 

“Neither do I…” She stiffened slightly at his words, squirming in his embrace slightly, turning around in his arms to face him. They’d talked about Storms End sometimes, but she’d never even really thought to ask if he really still wanted to go there.  She’d seen how happy he’d been to return to Winterfell, but she hadn’t imagined he’d want to stay the same way she did.  She wrapped her arms around his neck, curling her fingers into the short black hair at the nape of his neck, but she didn’t look up to meet his dark blue gaze. 

 

“What if Storms End doesn’t ever feel like home?” she whispered, biting her lip as she stood with him in the darkness.  She felt him let out a sigh, his arms tightening around her back as he pulled her closer. 

 

“I guess we’ll have to run away back here to Winterfell if that happens…” He said softly, though she could hear the hint of mischief in his voice.  He was joking, and yet not at the same time.  She knew if she asked, if she really truly asked, that he’d give up his castle and his title and stay with her in Winterfell.  They’d both made promises though, to each other and to Jon.  She wouldn’t have them break those promises now, but it didn’t stop the worry that gnawed at her.  She looked up at him now, still worrying at her bottom lip as her gray eyes met his. 

 

“Gendry, really… What if we’re always outsiders there? What if years pass and it’s still not home the way Winterfell is?” She asked softly, her brows pulled together with worry as he looked down at her with that stupid lovestruck face of his as he gazed at her in the low torchlight. 

 

“Wherever we are, as long as I’m with you, that’s my home…” He said, a smile curling over his lips as he brought one hand up to cup her cheek gentle.  Arya scowled up at him, pulling one hand from his hair to prod his chest pointedly with the tip of her finger.  She couldn’t really be mad at him though.  After all, there was no one else who dared say such stupidly sentimental things to her without fearing for their safety. 

 

“You’re such a sap…” She grumbled, letting out a huff as he leaned forward to kiss her gently.  When he pulled back, she was surprised to find the mirth gone from his eyes, a hint of sadness lurking behind his gaze as he spoke. 

 

“Arya…Winterfell feels like home to me too… it’s the first place I fit in, the first place I mattered to anyone… but I think after a while, Storm’s End will come to feel like home too… especially if you’re there with me…” He murmured, caressing her cheek with his thumb gently, smiling at her with that moonstruck look on his face again.  Gods, she wanted to smack him and kiss him at the same time when he looked at her like that.  She settled for a witty comeback instead. 

 

“If?  As though you could get rid of me now…” she quipped, wrapping her arm back around his shoulders and pulling him close for another slow kiss, letting her eyes close as they pulled apart slowly.  They stood in the quiet of the crypt for several moments, their foreheads pressed together as Arya toyed with Gendry’s hair gently.  He squeezed her just a little closer for a moment before he loosened his hold on her, his hands pulling back to rest at her hips instead. 

 

“Will you come back to the feast?” He asked softly, opening his blue eyes to look down at his she-wolf.  She sighed softly, looking up at him as she pulled back, a sad smile crossing her face. 

 

“You head back, I’ll be back soon, I promise… I just…” Her words trailed off as she looked around the crypt at the faces of her family.  She had come to say goodbye, and she needed to finish what she started. More so, she needed to do it alone. 

 

“You need some time, I understand…” Gendry said quietly, breathing out a soft sigh of his own. He found a similar sad smile curling across his own face as he pulled away from her slightly.  He let himself reach up to tuck a stray strand of hair back behind Arya’s ear, smiling as she leaned her hand into his touch. 

 

“Thank you” She murmured softly, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to Gendry’s lips, smiling up at him sadly before he stepped away from her embrace.  He glanced back at her over his shoulder with one final smile before he climbed the steps to the crypt and left her alone among the statues once more.  Arya looked around at the faces of those long gone, taking a step closer to the statue of her father, placing a hand on his broad stone chest.  She leaned in, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against the statue, wishing so badly that he was real. 

 

“I know you would have loved him father… I wish you’d had the chance…” She whispered, standing alone in the darkness among the statues.  If she tried really hard, she could conjure him back to her memory.  The way his leather tunic always smelled, the woodsmoke that lingered on him even when he hadn’t been near a fire, that scent of pine that he’d always used to cover up when he didn’t wash often enough.  She could almost feel the leather against her cheek, almost feel the warmth of his arms.  If she really tried, she could almost swear she could hear his voice whisper through the crypt. 

 

_‘Oh, sweet girl… I should have known you’d get your way in the end…’_ Tears sprung to her eyes, and she didn’t dare open them as she pressed herself closer into his chest.  She could feel the warmth of his breath on the top of her head, and the gentle caress of his broad hand over the back of her hair, as if he meant too pull her closer.  Tears rolled down her face, her brows furrowed sharply as she stood there, unwilling to open her eyes. 

 

“I miss you so much…” she choked out, her shoulders shaking as she fought back the sobs that wracked her body.  Her lip trembled as she stood there, and for a moment, she could feel the gentle press of his lips to her forehead, the way he’d always done when she was small.  She could swear that she could hear the words as he whispered them against her skin.

 

_‘I miss you too, little one…’_   She lifted her head finally, looking up with tear filled eyes at the stone carving of her father.  The moment had gone, and she was alone again amongst the dead.  She shook her head, stepping away from her father’s tomb, wiping the tears from her cheeks as she took a few steadying breaths.  She gave the carved face of Lord Eddard Stark one last lingering look before she turned and made her way towards the steps that lead back up to the main castle.  She’d spent enough time here among the dead, now it was time for her to return to the living.   

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you can't tell, I'm in a mood. a moody mood. the kind of moody mood that has me feeling.... moody...
> 
>  
> 
> i cried writing this...
> 
> like... a lot...


	59. The Long Ride South

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Gendry
> 
> Every time, it gets harder to leave.

-  Gendry  -

 

 

 

Once again, Gendry found himself packing up his belongings from the room he now shared with Arya.  They’d been here longer this time, nearly a month and a half, and it hurt even more to leave now.  He’d tried to keep from falling in love with the stones and the secrets that Arya showed him, but the siren’s call of Winterfell’s tiny wonders had been too tempting.  He’d failed miserably. How could he ride south to an unknown keep, when all he wanted to do was stay here forever?  He didn’t even mind the cold so much anymore, though the daily baths in the hot springs helped with that.  If he stayed between the forge, the springs, and the inside of the castle, he stayed warm enough.  Especially when he curled up at night in that big feather bed with his two she-wolves to keep him warm. 

 

Arya had let the fireplace die out.  Sansa might need to use the room someday, but no one would be sleeping in that room tonight.  Gendry picked up his pack, slinging it over his shoulder as he looked around the room.  All the little things that meant someone lived there were gone.  There were no clothes, no boots, no brushes or combs.  Nothing personal left, just a room.  It made his chest ache to think it might be years before he saw this room again.  Arya had already gone down to the courtyard. She’d packed the night before.  Gendry had been a little too tipsy to finish his own packing, so he’d had to make do with shoving his clothes into the pack, dirty and clean alike. 

 

He didn’t like the silence that filled the hall when he closed the door behind him. It was too final, and it hurt to leave.  He stomped down the stairs, scowling down at his boots as he made his way to the courtyard.  The great hall was empty and quiet as he walked through, absent of the lively crowd from the night before.  He pushed open the wooden door, stepping out into the courtyard only to be greeted by steadily falling snowflakes.  For once, he was envious of Daenerys in her wheeled carriage, with seats to recline on and thick furs to keep her warm while the rest of them rode in the snow.

 

Arya was giving her taller sister one final hug as Gendry stepped out into the courtyard.  Jon and the soldiers were already mounted, and he though he couldn’t see for the curtains, he knew the Dragon Queen was safe inside her carriage.  A servant had his horse readied, and another one rushed up to him to take his pack and load it onto the beast for him.  He’d stopped trying to protest after a while. Arya had chuckled at him when he’d been so uncomfortable with others doing things for him, but that was something he wasn’t sure he’d ever get completely used to.  He wasn’t used to leaving their plates from breakfast on the desk in her room, or leaving the bed unmade, only to return later for the food to have been cleared away, the bed remade, and a fire crackling in the hearth.  It was easier to just let them take his bags and saddle his horse for him.  It just wasn’t worth the argument. 

 

After the sisters exchanged a final fond smile, Arya stepped away to mount her horse, and Gendry was about to do the same when the Queen in the North called out to him.

 

“Gendry, wait a moment, I have something for you…” The redhead said, pulling a couple of books from the hidden folds of her long sleeves.  He’d never know how people managed to hide things in their sleeves, even ones that long.  Surely it should have just fallen out onto the floor? Perhaps there were secret pockets he just never knew of.  Sansa crossed the courtyard to stand beside him and his horse, holding out the books to him.  He’d never had much use for books before, but even just a couple weeks with Sansa’s tutoring had him starting to pull words from sentences. 

 

“It’s a small book of northern stories, for you to practice your reading… This one is for you to practice your letters; this charcoal should last until you reach Storms End.” She said, pressing the tomes into his hands, along with a leather pouch that held the charcoal pencils.  Gendry raised his brows, a surprised smile curling over his face.  It was a rare thing that he received a gift, and one from his sister-in-law was a prized thing indeed.  He’d probably need to ask Arya for help with the stories, and his letters were still clumsy, but she was right to encourage him to practice.

 

“Thank you, Sansa, I’ll try to practice every day” He promised, opening the cover of the journal, admiring the smooth pages. Books like this weren’t cheap, she’d spent a good sum on the blank journal.  He appreciated the gesture, just as much as he appreciated the stag that was stamped into the leather cover the bound the pages.  That sigil still didn’t quite feel his own, but it was starting to grow on him.  Arya still called him a bull though. She said that stags weren’t nearly as strong willed as he was, nor as strong.  He didn’t mind still being a bull to her, even if he was a stag to everyone else. 

 

“Good, I expect plenty of ravens from Storms End once you arrive” He was almost surprised when Sansa reached out to give his forearm an affectionate squeeze before she stepped away, that collected smile settling over the Queen in the North’s face.  They’d been closer, but not quite enough for a hug.  He didn’t mind, it would have been awkward.  Perhaps in time they might reach that kind of familiarity. 

 

“Hopefully I’ll have got good enough for you actually read them too” He teased, thinking back to his squiggly, blocky letters.  He’d barely be able to fit a single line on a raven scroll now.  He could barely get the forms to take the proper shape, let alone making them small enough to fit a few lines on a tiny raven scroll.  Sansa’s polite smile slipped as she let out a genuine chuckle at his words, her eyes twinkling with just a little bit of the impish delight he so often saw in Arya as she smiled warmly back at him.

 

“I’m sure they’ll be manageable…” She said, waving a hand at him playfully, as though all of them leaving didn’t make her own heart ache.  It was easier to have a short, playful goodbye with her new brother-in-law than to dwell on how much she was going to miss them all at her table every evening.  Even Ghost was returning south with them, leaving her with only Ser Brienne, Podrick, and Bran for company.  The Queen in the North had a feeling this was going to be a very long and lonesome winter. 

 

Gendry tucked the books safely away into his pack before he mounted his horse, adjusting his grip on the reins as he urged the beast towards the rest of the procession.  Arya smiled at him before she pulled her hood up over head to protect from the falling snow.  He didn’t find himself nearly as chilled as the last time they’d been in the north, especially since his hair had grown back in now, but he was still grateful for the hood to keep the snowflakes off his face as they rode.  He didn’t miss Arya’s lingering look over her shoulder back at Sansa standing alone in the courtyard.  He’d have to make a point of them coming back to visit as soon as they reasonably could.

 

He missed the warm feather bed at Winterfell that night.  The tent did little to stave off the freezing air that swirled the snow around them.  He’d tried to sit by the candle and make out the words from the book Sansa gave him, but his teeth had been chattering too hard.  He’d only warmed finally when Arya had pulled him under the furs of their cot and Nymeria had pressed herself up against his other side.  It took a week of riding for the chill to subside enough for him to read comfortably outside a pile of furs in the evenings. 

 

Instead of carving at night by the fire, he spent his time pouring over the stories.  Sometimes he’d go to Arya with questions about a word, and she’d patiently explain the word he was looking at.  Sometimes she even helped him practice his letters, though he was glad that she’d not been his teacher to start. For all the things he loved about her, patience was not one of Arya’s virtues.  He could tell when she started to get frustrated when he couldn’t read a word, or his letters were sloppy.  Sometimes she had to step away for a few minutes, just so she wouldn’t burst with impatience.  Still, he was thankful for what little patience she did have, and he found himself improving steadily. 

 

By the time three weeks had passed, and the chill of winter had subsided somewhat, he could read most of the northern stories.  He liked to light candles near their cot and read them out loud to Arya as they lounged before sleep.  He didn’t even mind when she fell asleep while he was reading, and she helped when he stumbled over some of the words.  Even she mentioned how quickly had was improving.   He’d puffed up at that compliment from his she-wolf, feeling proud to have made quick work of such a skill.  He could mostly read, and his letters were getting good.  At least he wouldn’t be the illiterate Lord of Storm’s End anymore.

 

The welcome that the innkeeper and his wife lavished upon the King and Queen upon their return to the crossroads was humorous, though to be expected.  With how much gold Jon had given them last time for the inconvenience of hosting royalty, he was lucky they didn’t throw themselves at his feet to kiss his boots.  Jon would have been horrified, but Gendry knew the innkeepers probably had thought about it.  It was hard to be regular folk, confronted with royalty.

 

Of course, Hot Pie had been very much the same.  He’d pulled Gendry into a crushing hug, only releasing the blacksmith when he’d had to wheeze out his hello.  Arya got the same treatment, though she got released to breathe slightly sooner.  The cook had to excuse himself to tend to the other guests of the inn, but he’d made them comfortable at a table in the corner with two of his meat pies and tankards of ale to wash it down.  When the hour grew late and most of the guests had filtered off to their rooms, the portly young man finally sat down across from his old friends.

 

“Sorry it took so long; everyone was extra hungry tonight” Hot Pie said, drinking from the tankard of ale he’d brought over for himself.  He’d come with a pitcher as well, refilling their cups and leaning on the table as they all relaxed around the table.  Gendry just shrugged, smiling at his old friend as Arya leaned her shoulder against his.

 

“Don’t worry about it, you’re just doing your job” He said, picking up his own flagon of ale and taking a drink, glancing over as Arya sat up slightly, though she kept her shoulder pressed against his. 

 

“Speaking of… Are you ready to come to Storms End with Gendry and me?” She asked, fixing her gray gaze on the portly cook.  Hot Pie frowned for just a moment, taking a sip from his ale before he looked back to the stag and the wolf that sat across from him.

 

“We’d leave tomorrow?” He asked, Arya and Gendry both nodding.  They’d not stayed anywhere more than one night since leaving Winterfell.  Even with the snows on their heels spreading steadily south, they’d made good time to the Inn at the crossroads.  It was just under two weeks ride from the crossroads to Storms End.  They’d part ways with the King and Queen in a handful of days, and then it would just be the three of them, riding alone to Storms End. Hot Pie rubbed his chin slightly, a look of concern crossing his expressive face.

 

“I don’t have much to pack, just a couple of things… but I don’t have a horse” he worried, a small smile crossing Arya’s face at his words.  They had a couple spare horses they rode with to carry packs.  She’d made sure that one of their larger geldings had been brought on the trip.  He was a strong black beast, and he wouldn’t have any difficulty bearing the weight of the cook.

 

“We can get you a horse” She assured him, smiling at him over the rim of her tankard.  Still, the worry on the young cook’s face didn’t subside.

 

“And you’re sure there’s going to be space for me there?” He asked, raising his brows as he looked at his friends.  Sure, they were Lord and Lady now, but there was probably already a cook, and he took up quite a lot of space in a kitchen.  What about rooms? Where would he sleep?  He didn’t quite fit on the cot that the Innkeeper and his wife had given him.  Would he have to sleep on another cot near the kitchen in storms end.  Arya let out a soft sigh, reaching out to pat the cook on the forearm gently.

 

“Hot Pie, it’s a castle. I’m sure there will be plenty of space for you.” She said, giving him a fond smile. The young cook let out a sigh, smiling at the pair across from him as Gendry nodded his agreement. 

 

“There will always be a place for our friends in Storms End” He declared, nodding his head once.  Arya raised a brow at her blacksmith, a smirk crossing her face as she shook her head slightly, rolling her eyes as she looked back to Hot Pie.  For someone who wasn’t comfortable with power, he sure was getting good at making grand statements and issuing orders without realizing it.  She had a feeling he wouldn’t have nearly as hard a time as Lord of Storms End as they thought. Hot Pie looked relieved, grinning broadly back at them.

 

“As long as you’re sure, then count me in” He said, clinking his tankard of ale against theirs before taking a long drink, refilling his own mug and their own.  The three friends drank down their ale, Gendry letting out a sigh and leaning his back against the wall of the Inn, looking around at the beams that held up the ceiling, raking his gaze over the stones of the hearth.  The cook had been here for years, but he didn’t seem too attached to the place. 

 

“Will you miss it?” He blurted out he words, not having realized that the thought had finished itself out loud for a long moment.  He’d had quite a bit of ale, and his head was feeling a little light, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked.  Hot Pie let out a sigh, giving the room a similar sweep, taking in the hall of the Inn where he’d lived for the last few years.  The cook shrugged, looking back to the blacksmith across from him.

 

“Maybe a little… Missed you two more though.  Nothing like when we used to travel together as kids…” He said, smiling at them broadly.  They’d ran and fought for their lives, been tormented and tortured at Harrenhal, but they’d stuck together through it all. Everything had gone sideways as soon as they were parted.  Hot Pie had stayed at the Inn where he’d be safe, and it hadn’t been much later that Gendry had been sold to the red witch and Arya had been kidnapped by the hound.  Even though they’d had to fight through their lives, they all looked back on the days they spent together with some modicum of fondness. 

 

“Missed you too, Hot Pie” Arya said softly, giving him a fond smile.  She barely suppressed a yawn, covering her mouth slightly too late, setting off a chain reaction from Gendry to the cook, and then back to her for a yawn she couldn’t stifle.  Hot Pie let out a chuckle, setting his empty tankard on the table, getting up from the bench and putting his hands on his hips. 

 

“It’s getting late, let’s get you to your rooms… room… by the gods I keep forgetting you’re married now. Funny, innit?  I’m sure we’ll leave early tomorrow.  I made sure they saved one of the good beds for you…” Arya and Gendry could only smile at each other and follow him through the Inn as their old friend rambled on as he led them to their room.  He’d given them each another big hug before he’d let them disappear into their room for the night, promising to be up at dawn and ready to ride.  

 

Gendry still missed the bed at Winterfell, but the straw mattress and the thick blankets were a welcome warmth in the cold winter night.  With Arya curled up against his chest, and the promise of their old friend joining them the following day, Gendry slept soundly.  They rode south to the unknown, but it wasn’t completely foreign.  Ser Davos waited for them at Storm’s End, and their long-gone friend would ride south with them come the dawn.  Their band of allies was small, but they’d faced harder challenges than a keep of Lords and Ladies.  He wasn’t quite as nervous anymore, going into this new adventure with his friend and his love at his side.  It wasn’t a feather bed, but that night, Gendry didn’t mind so much. 

 

 


	60. The Lord and Lady of Storms End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV Arya
> 
> After quite a long ride, they finally arrive at Storms End

-  Arya  -

 

 

 

Arya was glad to part ways with Jon and Daenerys after they left the Inn.  She’d been finding her brother and his wife increasingly insufferable in the weeks following the announcement of their ‘happy condition’.  Even the use of that phrase made her want to gag.  Jon spent all his time cooing over his wife’s very slowly growing stomach, and Daenerys spent just as much time drifting around their camp with her hands over her belly, sighing wistfully.  She was completely done with the pregnant Queen and her lovestruck fool of a brother.  She hugged them both gladly and wished them safe journeys as they continued down the main road towards Kings Landing while she, Gendry, and Hot Pie had turned south towards the Stormlands.

 

It was barely a week’s ride from Kings Landing to Storms End, and the time passed quickly amongst the three friends.  It reminded her of the days they’d roamed the Riverlands as children, though they weren’t having to sleep rough this time.  They rode through the day into the midafternoon, then set up the tent and their beds inside before building a fire and spending their evenings sharing stories and telling jokes until sleep tugged at their eyes and they made their way to sleep.  They only had the one tent, so Arya had to be content with simply sleeping beside her husband at night.  After three days of Hot Pie’s snoring and having to keep her hands on top of Gendry’s clothing, she found herself looking forward to reaching the Stormlands.

 

On the sixth and final day, she found herself eating her own words as they were pelted with rain that started before daybreak.  The final approach to Storms End was wet and gloomy, their horses tromping through the mud. Even Nymeria was properly soaked as she walked alongside the horses, the ceaseless rain soaking through her thick coat.  They rode through the day and past sunset, pushing their horses a hint harder than they should have, but there was no where else for them to ride to that evening. 

 

Eventually, through the rain a great black shape began to emerge out of the blue gloom of twilight.  Arya could see flecks of yellow throughout the black, windows lit from the inside, making the massive keep stand out in the storm.  At the very end of the road, there stood a small watchtower pressed up against the massive bulk of the castle wall.  The glow of the torches illuminated them as they rode up to the gate, pulling back their hoods even in the rain to peer up at the guard who was charged with first duty this evening. The young man peered down at them, gripping the spear he was tasked with carrying as he studied the group of travelers. 

 

“Who goes there?” He called out, his voice shaking slightly.  Arya had to resist rolling her eyes at the young man, twitching the reins on her horse and shifting slightly as she looked over at Gendry.  He looked back at her for a long moment before he realized that it was _him_ who was supposed to speak first this time, not her.  He cleared his throat, pushing his wet cloak hood out of the way as he looked up with his Baratheon blue eyes at the young guard.

 

“I’m Gendry… Baratheon, Lords of Storms End…I’m here with my wife, Arya Stark of Winterfell, and our…cook, Hot Pie.” He said, faltering a little at first with his name.  He still wasn’t used to hearing Baratheon and having it mean him.  Even after these months, he still usually only felt comfortable when people called him Gendry.  Even _milord_ was pushing it.  The young guard squinted down at the three travelers, shifting the spear between his hands as he tried to make up his mind about what he was going to do with them. 

 

“Don’t look much like a Lord…” He griped, frowning down at them as another figure emerged from the watchtower.  The older man leaned over the towers edge, peering down at the young stag and the she-wolf, his eyes going wide as he stared down at the pair of them, as though he’d seen a ghost himself.  He shoved the younger man to the side towards the chain for the gate, scolding the other guard fiercely.  Somehow Arya got the impression that the younger guard wasn’t really much of a guard, just some young man who’d been roped into playing soldier and now guard in the wars that had so recently ended. 

 

“Seven Hells…Out of the way boy, and mind your tongue… Its pissing buckets and you’re keeping our new Lord out in the rain, I ought to tan your hide…” The older man barked, shoving the chain into the young man’s hands, waving at him to pull. 

 

“But how’d ya know he’s the Lord?” The young man whined, starting to haul the chain to raise the gate for the party of travelers. The older guard scowled at the young man, peering down at the riders at the gate. 

 

“Yer too young to remember what King Robert and his brothers used to look like… he’s the splitting image.  Nearly thought I’d seen the ghosts of Robert and Lyanna when the Lady put down her hood.  Come on in, all of you…” the older man said, waving them forward as the gate lifted out of the way.  Arya had raised her brows at his words at the mention of her aunt.  She supposed the story of Robert and Lyanna was seen as just as much of a tragic story here in Storms End as it was in the north.  If only they’d known the truth, perhaps things would have been different in the world.  She’d been told before that she looked like her aunt, even though she had never seen the resemblance in the stone statue that stood in the crypt.  Apparently, it was evident, so much so that a stranger had known her a Stark when she simply took down her hood.

 

“Thank you, ser” Gendry said, bowing his head slightly to the older guard as the man climbed down the small spiral staircase to step out into the log hall that led to the inner courtyard of the Storms End.  He guards smiled up at the young Lord, bowing before taking the reins of his horse and leading him down the great hallway. 

 

“Not a knight, my Lord, just an old guard…” He said, looking back over his shoulder at the young trio of riders.  Even in the darkness of the hall, to a man such as him who had known many Baratheons, there was no doubt in his mind that the young Lord was every bit a stag as his father.  Just as he had been sure a Stark rode at his side when he saw the she-wolf.  The girl looked so much like Lyanna that he’d nearly dropped his torch to see her.   He still remembered the day Rhaegar had crowned her the queen of love and beauty and started the war that had nearly put the country to ruin. 

 

The walk down the hall took a good while.  The walls of Storms End were forty feet thick at their _thinnest_ point, to defend against the raging sea and any would-be invaders.  There was a good reason Storms End had never been breached since the seventh rebuilding by Bran the Builder in the old days.  When they finally did step out of the long hall into the castle, Arya was slightly in awe at the size of it.  Out of the darkness loomed the massive castle tower, and all around were the functions of the castle and many homes.  It wasn’t surprising that many of the smallfolk would live inside the castle walls.  There was no place safer in all of the Stormlands, not from weather or foe.  After another short patch of rain, the guard had led them under an awning, leaving to head into the great keep. 

 

The main door opened, several servants stepping out into the cold, damp night to tend to the late arrivals.  Arya dismounted stiffly, stretching her legs and back as the servants unloaded her pack and took her horse away to the stables for a brushing down and a well-deserved rest.  Hot Pie hadn’t been quite as comfortable on his horse, and his legs were so stiff that he had a bit of difficulty getting down, though he made it eventually.  The cook was glad they had finally arrived, long days of riding didn’t suit him.  He could stand all day kneading dough or chopping potatoes, but his legs couldn’t take that kind of riding. 

 

Arya didn’t miss the broad grin that came unbidden to her new husband’s face when the figure of the Onion Knight appeared in the main doorway.  Ser Davos strode across the stones towards the blacksmith, the two taking up in a fierce hug.  It had been some months since they’d parted ways, and Gendry had missed the smuggler more that he cared to admit.  He squeezed the older man in a tight hug, but he didn’t keep his grip any longer than was acceptable.  He pulled back, beaming at the older man, who stepped back to bow to his new Lord.

 

“My Lord Baratheon…” Davos said, smiling at the young man.  Gendry grinned, reaching out and squeezing the Onion Knight on the shoulder. 

 

“Ser Davos…” He acknowledged, nodding his head once more.  The gray-blue eyes of the former smuggler settled on Arya now, a fond look crossing the older man’s face as he took in her rain-soaked form.  She must have looked a sight, her dark hair pulled back in a tight braid, her leather tunic dark and wet, water dripping from her pants down to her boots.  They were all properly soaked.  Davos bowed to Arya now, extending his arm to the young Stark for her to grasp.  Arya gripped his arm firmly, giving him a playful smile.  They might not have the closeness that he and Gendry shared, but she liked the Onion Knight.  She was glad to have him with them for this. 

 

“And Lady Arya, I take it the trip wasn’t too dreary.” He said, grasping her arm in return.  Arya rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she looked at the older man. 

 

“Just Arya… We had fair weather until today, nothing but rain since before dawn…” She said, giving him a pointed look.  Gendry might have to be Lord Baratheon, but just as she demanded at Winterfell, she didn’t really want to be called a Lady at Storms End either.

 

“Aye, ya look about soaked, lets get you all inside.” He said, patting Arya on the shoulder fondly as he led the three of them inside, Nymeria hot on their heels.  The direwolf had spent several weeks on the road with her girl, and now that they were back in a castle, she was ready for a nice long nap by a fireplace.  They stood in the entrance hall, accepting sheets from some servants to help start drying them.  The servants skirted around Nymeria cautiously, eying the great direwolf with a mixture of fear and awe. Eventually they’d grow used to her, as those at Winterfell did, though it might take a little longer for southerners to accept a direwolf.  Ser Davos shifted slightly, clasping his arms behind has back as he looked over the soaked trio.

 

“I got a letter from the King just yesterday; said you were on the way after you parted on the road south.  Seems Storms End decided to give you all a traditional greeting of its own” He said, a wry smile crossing the older man’s face as Gendry gave the former smuggler an incredulous look.

 

“No kidding…” he fussed halfheartedly.  Most people weren’t a fan of being soaked with rain, but he was Lord of the Stormlands now.  Rain was a common occurrence here, and he’d need to start getting used to it.  Not that it made this discomfort of being wet any less annoying.  He was looking forward to getting out of his wet clothes and into something warm and dry.  Arya was very much in agreement, never having enjoyed the way her clothes stuck to her skin in rain like this.  She watched Davos as he fidgeted again, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he cleared his throat, looking at Gendry.

 

“Now, there are some Lords waiting in the round hall for you…I told them that you’d grant an audience in the morning, but they were rather insistent” The Onion Knight said, an apologetic look flashing across his face.  He must have done his best to dissuade them, but they were proud men, and once they’d found out their new Lord was finally arriving, they wanted to be the first to present their issues. Gendry frowned, letting out a sigh as he ran his hand through his wet hair, pushing it out of his face.

 

“…I guess I should go see them after we dry off…” he said, letting out a resigned sigh.  Arya scowled, narrowing her eyes, shaking her head sharply.

 

“No, lets go now… they want to demand their new Lord’s time, they can have it” she snarled.  No Lord would have been so disrespectful in the north.  They’d just come from five weeks of riding and had spent the whole day trudging through a storm.  Now they demanded their Lord’s attention like bratty children, unable to wait a handful of hours for them to rest and recuperate.

 

“Arya…” She could hear the hesitation in Gendry’s voice at her words.  He could see the anger clearly written across her face, and he reached out a hand to rest on her shoulder gently.  She didn’t shrug off his touch, but she fixed him with a hard stare none the less, shaking her head firmly.

 

“Nothing is so pressing that it can’t wait until the morning.  They’ve been waiting for you for months, now they want to see if they can step on you to get their way because you’re new at this.  You are Lord of Storms End, your time is worth more than theirs, and they need to learn to respect it.” She snapped, scowling at no one in particular, except perhaps the Lords who felt so entitled to their time.  Gendry raised his brows, but he didn’t argue.  Her words rang with truth, and the last thing he wanted was to give these men the impression that they could walk all over him.  People had been stepping on him all his life, he wasn’t going to allow noble men to crush him under their boots any longer. 

 

“Lead on then, Ser Davos.  Hot Pie, do you mind waiting while we deal with this?” Gendry said, looking to the portly cook, who was just as drenched as they were.  The young man shrugged, smiling at his friends.  He knew they both had duties to attend to, but given the look on Arya’s face, he had a feeling that they weren’t going to be occupied for too long. 

 

“Nah, you two go ahead, I’ll wait here.  Those Lords don’t need to meet your cook too” Hot Pie said, smiling at his friends and waving them off, finding a sturdy chair in the entrance way to sit in while he waited.  Gendry smiled at him briefly before turning his focus back to Ser Davos and Arya.  Davos gave him a solemn nod before he started off down a hallway, the Lord and Lady of Storms End following him close behind, Nymeria at their heels.  Ser Davos paused at the door, and Arya took that moment to lean up to whisper in her husband’s ear.

 

“Stay calm and try not to show much emotion, I know how to deal with men like this” Arya whispered, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. Gendry gave her a nervous smile, nodding to her before he looked at Ser Davos.  Arya could tell he was nervous, and she had far more experience dealing with surly noble men than he did.  He didn’t mind letting her take the lead on this one.

 

Ser Davos pushed open the door to the Round Hall, leading them into the grand room.  Unlike most castles where the rooms were rectangular, Storms End was built in one massive circular tower, and the great hall was no exception. The Lords were all sat around a massive round wooden table.  One chair stood out from the rest, more like a throne than a chair, carved out of stone and clearly where the Lord Paramount was supposed to sit.  Arya could see the panic in Gendry’s eyes as he took in the room full of older men, all of whom stood at their arrival.

 

Arya let her fingers brush against Gendry’s drawing his attention so she could motion towards the stone chair that was so clearly meant for him.  He nodded, saying nothing as he walked around the table towards his seat, Arya following behind him.  They left trails of water on the stone floors, their boots leaving puddles as they walked.  Gendry sat in the stone chair, taking a deep breath as he tried to keep his face calm and stoic as he looked out over the grouping of Lords.  Arya sat in the chair to his right, Nymeria making herself noticeable as she sat at her girl’s side, golden eyes surveying the gaggle of older man.  Arya watched as each of them eyed the direwolf warily, a pleased feeling settling over her.  It was good that they were nervous, she wanted them off their game. She didn’t speak for a long moment, bringing that cool mask of indifference over her face as she addressed them. 

 

“My Lords… We have just arrived from out of the storm and were informed that you had extremely pressing matters to discuss.  I assume these matters must be dealt with immediately, else they could wait until the morning once your Lord has rested.  Please, tell us what is so urgent.” She said, lifting her chin slightly as she looked at them all.  Silence hung thick in the round hall, the only noise the quiet _drip drip_ of the water that fell from their clothes and landed on the stone. Arya fixed her calculating gray gaze on each one of the men there, daring them to speak.  She wanted to hear what was _so_ urgent that it couldn’t wait until they’d had a chance to rest and settle in, or at the very least dry their clothes.

 

“My Lady, there are bandits in the woods…” finally the silence was broken, though the man’s words were quiet, almost uncertain.  Arya’s eyes snapped to the face of the one who had spoken, and she watched him swallow visibly when Nymeria’s golden eyes fixed on him as well.  She raised one dark brow as she regarded him, giving him a cursory once over before she decided how she wanted to reply. 

 

“Bandits, you say?  Fine, let us return to the horses immediately, we will hunt down these bandits, Lord…” She trailed off, waiting for him to offer up his name. She was familiar with the houses of the Stormlands, but she didn’t know what their Lords looked like. 

 

“Lord Wylde, my Lady…” He said, his gaze flicking between her and the great direwolf at her side, as though he was concerned Nymeria might leap across the table and devour him.  Arya nodded her head once, making a note in her memory to keep an eye on this one.  He had been the only one bold enough to speak and challenge her, and she could only assume this meant he might be likely to stir up trouble in the future.  She raised her chin slightly, pursing her lips as she folded her hands together and rested them on the table. 

 

“Very good, Lord Wylde.  Fetch your horse, we will ride out at once” she demanded, once again raising her brow at the older man.  She watched as his mouth dropped open slightly.  She could see he was trying to find the right thing to say, but clearly, he had not anticipated this response from her.

 

“But my Lady, the storm…” he offered meekly, glancing to his new liege Lord.  Gendry sat at his place at the head of the table, mimicking his wife as he too folded his hands and rested them on the table.  He said nothing, simply raising one brow as he fixed the man with his icy blue gaze.  He’d watched Arya do it enough times, he felt he could give quite a good imitation of her vicious stare.  It was almost as though Lord Wylde expected Gendry to ‘do something’ about his wife’s behavior, but the Lord of Storms End made no movements or sounds to contradict his wife.  They would learn to respect her word as law just as much as his.  It was with great reluctance that the older Lord returned his attention to the gray eyes of the she-wolf, and Arya could see him shrink under her steely gaze.

 

“Forgive me, Lord Wylde, but I did ask for which matters must be addressed immediately.  If you were not prepared to ride out this instant, why did you bring it up?  I was under the impression that I made it clear, anything that doesn’t need to be addressed immediately can wait until the morning.  So… can the bandits wait until morning?” She asked, her tone even and calm as she addressed the unruly Lord.  It was her calm and collected demeanor that betrayed the training of a Lady even under the tough exterior of the she-wolf.  Had she yelled or raised her voice, it would have cheapened her words.  Instead, her icy tone was hard and accusatory.  How dare he waste their time with talk of bandits if he was not prepared to ride out into the night to deal with them?  She doubted he’d be willing to join the raiding party they’d eventually have to send out, but those matters would keep until the morning. 

 

“Yes, my Lady…” Lord Wylde said, averting his gaze from the she-wolf.  He’d been thoroughly put back in his place by a woman young enough to be his daughter.  Arya knew there would be resentment, but times were changing.  A Targaryen sat on the throne once more, dragons had returned to the world, and the new Lord and Lady of Storms End had changes of their own to make about the way things were done. Gone were the days when the Lady of Storms End would simply be a pretty thing hanging from her husbands’ arm.  Arya looked around the room at each of the Lords, Nymeria’s gaze swiveling with her own.

 

“Good… does anyone else have any urgent matters for my Lord husband this evening?” She asked, tilting her head ever so slightly to the side as she raised a brow at them.  Silence fell across the table, and while a few of the Lords dared to meet her gaze, the majority of them didn’t.  None were prepared for a verbal lashing the way she’d done to Lord Wylde, and they all knew that whatever issue they brought up she would demand be addressed that moment.  The matters they had were matters that had waited several months, and _they_ knew that they could wait until the morning.  Arya finally looked to Gendry, gray eyes meeting blue.  She nodded slightly, and he nodded in return, standing up from his stone chair, the rest of the Lords rising as well.

 

“Very well…We’ve had a long ride, and we thank you for your patience in waiting for our arrival.  I’ll make sure we hear your grievances tomorrow.  For now, we bid you goodnight.” He said, fixing the group of men with a stern gaze.  No one talked back or questioned him, and for the very first time, Gendry felt the power of his title.  He’d still just been Gendry at Winterfell, respected by the servants and part of the family, but many there had known him when he’d just been a bastard.  Here, he was Lord of Storms End, and the name Baratheon commanded respect. 

 

He reached out to Arya, offering her his hand, not caring if the Lords saw this display of affection.  Arya let that icy mask she wore slip slightly as a smile curled across her lips when she took his hand into her own, letting him lead them from the round hall back to the side door where Ser Davos was waiting for them.  The Onion Knight had watched the whole exchange without a word, but he’d been unable to keep the small smile off his face when Arya had so thoroughly swatted the lesser Lords back to their place.  They’d been running him ragged the last months, but he’d not had the authority to chastise them so.  Now their Lady, a young woman of eight and ten, had made it clear that continued disrespect would not be tolerated. 

 

Ser Davos let them up a long curved staircase to the floors above the main hall, branching off to the side to a large wooden door.  He pushed it open, leading the young couple and the direwolf into the room that served as the Lords chambers.  There were rooms on the floors above for visiting Lords and servants and other workers, but the first floor of the tower was reserved for the Lord of Storms End and his Lady.  Davos stood at the door as they walked inside, letting them look around the room without stepping inside and intruding on what was now their room.

 

“I’ll have the servants bring something up for supper, and I’ll get our new cook sorted with a room as well.  I’m sure I’ll get to hear all about your travels at breakfast.” He said, smiling at the pair of them.  Gendry smiled back at the Onion Knight when he spoke, tearing his gaze away from the room to look at the older man.  It had been so long since he’d seen him, he wanted to pull the older man in for another hug, but it didn’t quite seem like the right time.  He’d find some minutes to spend alone with the former smuggler soon.  Davos was the closest thing he’d ever had to a father, and he had plenty of stories to tell. 

 

“Thank you, Davos” he said, pulling his gaze away to look around the room.  It was far grander than the room they’d shared before at Winterfell, but things were much simpler in the north.  The castles, the food, the furniture, it was all built to last, not to impress.  Here, things were build for their quality and their beauty.  The room was curved, like the great hall, but the furniture had been placed around the room in such a way that didn’t feel awkward.  There were doors that led off to either side of the bedchamber, leading to private places that only the Lord and Lady of the castle were likely to see, aside from the servants. 

 

“Rest well, you two… its back to the wolves tomorrow…” Davos joked lightly, catching a mischievous smile from Arya as she looked back to the older knight.  She’d barely exposed her fangs this evening.  The Lords of Storms End were in for quite the shock going forward. 

 

“They haven’t seen the wolf yet” She quipped back, smirking at the Onion Knight as she took a few more steps into the room, running her fingers over the blankets that made up the master bed.  It was grander than her parents’ bed had ever been.  The frame was ornately carved with stags and other creatures, the four posts holding up a canopy and curtains that could be drawn to shield them from the morning light or the prying eyes of servants.  The cloth of the blankets was soft to the touch, and she was already looking forward to feeling them against her skin. 

 

“No doubt, My Lady” Ser Davos said, letting out a chuckle as he regarded the young woman. Arya glanced back at him, raising a dark brow and shaking her head slightly.

 

“Just Arya, Ser Davos” she corrected, though she smiled at him.  He bowed his head slightly, clasping his hands behind his back as he gave her a sheepish smile.  He was used to calling Gendry by his name, since he’d known him long before he was ever a Lord, but she’d always been Lady Arya Stark to him before.  She didn’t want to be a Lady to him though.  She knew how Gendry cared for him, and there was no doubt in her mind that Ser Davos was included in their pack now.  Pack didn’t need titles. 

 

“Apologies, Arya, old habits die hard…” He said, giving them one last bow before he stepped back out into the hall, closing the door and leaving the three of them alone.  Nymeria left her place at Arya’s side, crossing the room to flop herself down in front of the crackling fire, stretching out to bask in the heat of the flames, much as she had back in Winterfell.  Arya let out a soft sigh, turning to look at Gendry who had a broad grin plastered over his face.  He closed the distance between them in a couple steps, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pulled her close. 

 

“Seven Hells woman, you could have at least left them with a hint of pride” He teased, smiling broadly at her.  Arya looped her arms lazily around his shoulders, running her fingers through his wet black hair.  She smiled up at him playfully, raising a brow at him as they stood so close together, alone in _their_ chambers.

 

“We’re going to be changing a lot of things around here, they might as well get used to dealing with me…” she said, shrugging slightly as she leaned into his hug.  Even though they were both still soaked from their ride through the storm, the warmth of him helped stave off the damp cold that was starting to sink its way into her skin.

 

“Did you see the look on Lord Wylde’s face when you told him to ride out tonight?” Gendry teased, the both of them letting out a hearty laugh.  The older man had gone positively pale at the suggestion.  They were Lords of the Stormlands, they knew better than most how dangerous the storms could be.  Only a fool would ride out into one on purpose, and only a man with a death wish would try to hunt bandits in one. 

 

“I think he was more scared that I was going to have Nymeria jump across the table and rip his throat out…” She joked, drawing circles with her fingertips on the nape of his neck as she leaned into his embrace.  He smiled, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. 

 

“You just always know how to make friends, _Milady_ ” he murmured, squeezing her just a little closer to try to avoid the blow he had come to expect when he called her that.  They were too close for her to strike him now, so she settled for a good eye roll and one of her old reliable insults. 

 

“Stupid bull” she grumbled at him, curling her fingers into his dark hair and pulling him closer for a lingering kiss.  They’d had the hardest time trying to keep their hands off each other while traveling on the road with Hot Pie.  For the sake of their friend, they’d kept their kisses short and chaste in his presence, but now they were alone.  Her eyes slid closed as she curled her fingers into his hair, feeling his hands tighten around her waist as their kiss took a needy turn.  Gendry pulled back from the kiss when his lungs screamed for air, leaning his forehead against Arya’s as they tried to catch their breath from the passionate kiss.

 

“If I weren’t so damn tired, I’d have you right now” He growled, his words tugging at that nagging desire in the pit of her stomach.  She had no doubt that he was telling the truth, and if her whole body didn’t ache from riding all day and she wasn’t so cold from the rain, she might have stripped him of his clothes and had _her_ way with him too.  She sighed, loosening her grip on his hair, running her fingers over his scalp gently, smiling when she heard him give a hum of satisfaction at the scratches. 

 

“Mmm… perhaps we’ll be less damn tired in the morning” She said, raising a brow at him as he looked up to meet her gray gaze.  He smirked a little, his smile broadening into a grin before he leaned in to kiss her gently once more.  They’d promised to meet the Lords in the morning, but the morning had several hours, and she was looking forward to spending a few of those hours in her new bed with her husband.  With a reluctant sigh, she untwined herself from his embrace, starting to undo the ties that held her soaked tunic. 

 

It was no easy task to strip away the soaked leathers, but Arya was glad to be rid of them when she finally stood bare.  The servants had left several clean sheets on the table for them to dry off with, and Arya wrapped one around herself gladly, holding another out to Gendry so he could dry as well.  They were both shivering by the time they were dry, and they practically tore into their packs to scrounge for dry clothes.  Much of their clothes were damp from the rain, but a few things towards the center had stayed mercifully dry.

 

Arya pulled on a pair of breeches and a loose shirt, scrubbing her hair with the sheet to try to get rid of some of the moisture.  What was the point of dry clothes if her hair was just going to drip all over them and make them damp again?  It was their luck that they finished dressing so quickly, for the knock that came at the chamber door.  Gendry crossed the room to open it, raising his brows at the young woman who stood there with a tray laden with supper for them. It was simple fair, but Gendry himself was a simple man, and the two bowls of stew with bread smelled incredible.  He reached out to take the tray from the serving girl, giving her a warm smile.

 

“Thank you” he said, not quite sure what to make of the surprised look that crossed her face when he thanked her.  He could never understand why so many high-born Lords and Ladies were so rude to the servants.  All they did was help, and so many looked down their noses at them.  He remembered how it was to be looked down on that way, and he’d vowed to himself that he’d never treat the smallfolk of his hold the way he’d been treated all his life.  The serving girl curtsied low before she scurried away back down the hall, leaving them alone again in the bedroom.

 

He placed the tray on the table, setting the bowls in front of the chairs, sinking down in one and starting to devour his supper.  Arya only chuckled to herself, sitting in the chair beside him as she started to eat her own dinner.  Table manners were another thing he was going to need to learn, but someone else was going to need to find the time to teach him. Arya had no manners herself, it would be like the blind leading the blind.  By the time they’d finished their bowls of stew, Arya could already feel the first whispers of sleep tugging at her eyes. 

 

She couldn’t stifle the yawn that forced its way past her lips, setting off a chain reaction when Gendry yawned in response, followed by Nymeria letting out a yawn and a huff from her place by the fire. 

 

“I think its about time we went to bed, _Milord_ ” she teased playfully, reaching out to curl her fingers through his.  He smiled at her, lifting her hand to his lips to press a gentle kiss to her knuckles. 

 

“If you insist, _Milady_ ” He said, smiling at her warmly, though she could see the tiredness behind his eyes.  He let go of her hand, standing from his place at the table, making his way across the cold stone floor with his bare feet.  He was going to have to remember to ask about bringing in some rugs, just so that he didn’t have to walk on these cold stones in the morning.  Arya stood as well, circling around to the other side of the bed as Gendry pulled back the covers.  She waited a few moments, letting him take his time to climb into the grand bed.  Technically, he was the Lord, and these were the Lords chambers.  This was the first bed in his entire life that had truly belonged to him first.  She wanted to give him a chance to be the first to lie in it.

 

Gendry climbed into the massive four post bed, sinking into the soft feather mattress, letting out a low groan as he settled in.  He’d tolerated the bed in King’s Landing, and the bed at Winterfell had been wonderful, but this featherbed that belonged to him was perhaps the most comfortable one he’d ever laid on.  After a long moment of enjoying the softness, Gendry patted the space on the bed beside him, a smile breaking across Arya’s face as she climbed into the bed alongside him.

 

She too let out a groan of appreciation when the feather bed hugged her tired body, pulling the blankets up over them, just so she could nuzzle her face against the soft fabric the comforter was made of.  Just as she had so many times over the last several months, she settled her body against his side, her arm draped lazily across his chest.  She let out a long sigh, closing her eyes as she started to draw slow circles on his chest, a smile crossing her lips when she felt the steel of the wolf’s head pendant underneath his shirt.  The fire crackled away in the hearth, the soft sounds of Nymeria’s snores and the beating of the rain against the walls of the castle starting to lull the gray eyed she-wolf towards slumber. 

 

She opened her eyes reluctantly when Gendry leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead, smiling at him just a little before she leaned in to kiss his lips in return.  She nuzzled her nose against his gently, looking at him sleepily through half closed eyes as they laid there together in the darkness.  He reached up, taking her hand in his, curling their fingers together and laying their hands over his heart as his own eyes began to droop.  The bed was too comfortable, and they were far too tired.  Even with the weight of the following day lingering ahead of them, the call of sleep was far too inviting.  Arya had almost let herself start to doze when the silence of the room was broken by Gendry’s soft whisper.

 

“So… Any thoughts of running away yet?” he teased quietly, giving her a tired but playful smile as she opened her eyes to look at him.  Before, she’d been certain that the life of a Lady in a castle would have been the death of her.  With Gendry at her side, that future life didn’t look nearly so terrible.  If it became too much, she could ride away to be by herself, or even ride away with him in tow.  If Storms End couldn’t make them happy, then they’d run back to Winterfell, but now she didn’t feel the pull of the north so strongly.  Gendry had been right all along, it seemed.  Home was wherever he was, as long as they were together. 

 

Wars and men and kings and dragons and the army of the dead and Death itself had tried to keep them apart, but they’d found their way back to each other, despite all the odds.  Death had taken so much from her, but in that moment, she paid it very little mind.  Still, she knew Death lurked around every corner, ready to steal away from her all that she held dear.  It had taken her parents and her siblings and some she had called friends, but it would not take her husband from her now.  She knew what to say to the god of Death, and she knew what to say when he asked her if she wanted to run.  There was nowhere she would rather be in all of the world than with him.  She smiled at him, letting out a soft sigh as she leaned in to kiss him ever so gently, squeezing his hand as they laid curled together in the darkness.

 

“No…Not today…”

 

 

-  The End  -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well my dear readers, we've reached the end of this story. I'm sorry for not giving you more of a heads up, but I've always known this story was going to end when they arrived at Storms End. The story of their life together at Storms End could go on endlessly, and for the time being, this story needed to end. I have so many wonderful things I still want to do with these characters, so someday there may be a part 2, but for the time being, I'll be taking a break from Game of Thrones as a topic of writing. 
> 
> This is the first story I've ever written that's surpassed 20k words, and all the comments I've received have really helped in improving my writing as well as improve the confidence I have in myself. I plan on devoting my energy towards an original story that I've had in my head for some time, and starting and finishing this fic has really helped me feel as though an original novel isn't nearly as daunting a task as I used to think it was. 
> 
> I absolutely could not have done this without all the wonderful comments you've given me. Every time I received a new one, it lifted my heart just a little higher and pushed me to continue the story even when the chapters were hard to write. I've never received such an outpouring of support and love for my writing before, and I've taken each and every one of your comments to heart. I can't properly express how much it means to me that so many of you have loved this story, and I'm so incredibly thankful for your support and kind words. 
> 
> Thank you for coming on this adventure with me, its been an honor.


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